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LIBRARY 

OF 
DAVIS 


p 


OEMS  BY  7 

RICHARD  REALF 


POET 

SOLDIER-  •• 
WORKMAN 


WITH  A  MEMOIR   BY 
RICHARD  J.    HINTON 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
1898 


OF 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  BY  FUNK  AND 
WAGNALLS  COMPANY.  REGIS 
TERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL, 
LONDON,  ENGLAND.  PRINTED 
IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  .  , 


FORE-WORDS. 


In  presenting  the  collected  poems  of  Richard  Realf 
to  the  English-reading  public,  the  editor  disclaims  any 
special  effort  at  criticism  or  literary  skill,  beyond  that 
required  to  gather,  fill  in  an  occasional  missing  word, 
or  to  arrange  the  poems  in  some  sequence  of  subjects. 
But  he  believes  that,  in  fulfilling  his  modest  but  labori 
ous  and  patient  task  of  compilation  and  arrangement, 
the  result  will  be  found  to  be  a  genuine  addition  to  the 
noble  stock  of  English  poetry,  a  real  contribution  in  the 
loftier  sense  to  true  literature. 

The  only  merits  claimed  for  the  Memoir  are  the  faith 
ful  feeling  of  friendship  which  directed  the  work,  and 
the  sincerity  as  well  as  charity  of  spirit  which,  I  trust, 
has  controlled  the  statement  of  facts  and  conditions  that 
the  writer  would  have  been  much  more  pleased  to  sup 
press  than  express,  even  in  the  modified  way  that  he 
has  sought  to  accomplish  the  task.  What  the  world 
really  has  to  do  with  is  the  subjective  work  of  the  man; 
the  outgiving  of  the  spiritual  forces  that  animated  one 
who,  however  sadly  marred  were  his  outer  days,  has 
left  us  a  monumental  record  of  his  inner  life  and  of  the 
"mystic  aspirations"  which  he  so  nobly  expressed. 

Conscious  that  I  shall  be  censured  for  delay  in  accom 
plishing  the  work  I  can  only  say  that  I  am  sure  the 


Poet's  renown  and  my  friend's  name  have  both  gained 
by  delay,  which,  for  at  least  ten  years,  has  been  some 
what  deliberate  on  my  part,  for  I  would  not  be  the  cause 
of  inflicting  more  sorrow  on  one  who  had  already  suf 
fered  too  much.  So  I  waited  till  his  wife  had  left  us. 
Now  that  the  book  is  at  last  before  the  reading  world, 
and  my  obligation  to  the  one  who  "  fell  by  the  way  "  is 
met,  I  may  also  declare  that  this  is  due  very  largely  to 
the  inseeing  admiration  for  the  Poet,  and  the  constant 
service  to  myself  amid  many  untoward  conditions,  of 
my  beloved  wife,  Isabel,  to  whom  I  venture  to  make 
this  public  reference  and  thanks  therefore. 

I  wish  space  would  permit  me  to  thank  by  name  the 
many  true  friends  of  Richard  Realf,  as  well  as  some 
who  honor  me  with  their  friendship.  But  I  can  not  do 
more  than  express  gratitude  in  this  general  way,  except 
as  to  a  few  who  must  be  named  because  of  their  un 
selfish  devotion  to  the  dead  Poet.  1  desire  to  express 
my  thanks  for  valuable  suggestions  in  the  compilation 
of  this  volume  to  Rossiter  Johnson,  editor,  scholar, 
critic;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cothran,  of  San  Jose,  and  Col. 
Alexander  J.  Hawes,  of  San  Francisco,  Cal. ;  George  S. 
Cothman,  of  Irvington,  Ind. ;  Frances  E.  Riggs,  of  De 
troit;  Mrs.  Cramer,  and  Dr.  William  Akin,  of  Chicago; 
Miss  May  J.  Jordan,  of  Michigan;  Mary  P.  Nimmo  (now 
Mrs.  Ballantyne),  and  Rev.  Dr.  Hanna,  of  Washington; 
and  the  Rev.  David  Schindler,  formerly  of  Pittsburg. 

RICHARD  J.  HINTON. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Adieu,  The  Faint       .         .         .         .         .         .         .209 

Advice  Gratis          *,         .         .         .         .         «         .  154 

Agony 226 

Annunciation 118 

Apocalypse 37 

Army,  The  Grand 87 

B.,  To  Miss  H 28 

Battle,  In 42 

Birthday  Lily,  A 148 

Black  Man's  Answer,  A          .....  50 

Burns                             : 108 

Byron       .........  113 

Carpenter,  To  Frank  B 24 

Cellar,  A  Voice  from  a  City           ....  183 

Children,  The 165 

Comfort 127 

Communion          ........  198 

Condemned,  A  Voice  from  the       ....  169 

Daguerreotype,  On  Receipt  of  a                .         .         .  212 

Deafness,  To  a  Lady  Afflicted  with       ...  15 

Death  and  Desolation         ......  139 

xi 


PAGE. 

Decoration  Day       .......  18 

Denunciation      .          .......  123 

Emancipation          .         .         .         .         .         .         ,  -  51 

England,  To  Mrs.  M.,  of  .         .         .         ...  26 

Entreaty *  -  ••    ,  143 

Esoteric 167 

Expectancy .  144 

Face,  A  Pictured         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  150 

Farewell           .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  146 

Father-Love        ........  103 

Fragment,  A  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  215 

Fragments           .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  173 

Friend,  To  A  .         ....         .         .         .  105 

Friend,  To  An  English      ......  25 

"Gently,  Deal"      .         .         .         .         .         .         .  220 

Gun,  The  Joy     .         .       ..         .         .         ,         .         .76 

H.,  to  R.  J.     .         ,         .    : .    ,'.  '    .'        ,         .         .  32 

Harriet,  To         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  207 

Hashish           .         .         .         .         .         .....  189 

Home,  Going      .         .         .         .         .         .       ^.         .  162 

Home,  Letters  from         .         ,         ,         ,         .         .  116 

"  Hope  For  Thee,  There  is"     .         .         .         .         .  218 

Human  Statue,  The        ,         .         .         .     *  '..         .  229 
Hyatt,  To  Thaddeus           .         ,         .         .         .         .30 

Impatience      . 200 

Inauguration,  The     .......  131 

xii 


PAGE. 

Indirection T52 

Inspection I2° 

Insufficiency    . 

Introspection      »         .         *       .  •                  *        •  "       •  43 

loTriomphe!.        .         .        .         •        •    •     •      -,«.  73 

Ireland's  Misrule        .         .         .         .         .         .,      •  95 

Joshua,  Wanted:     .         .         .         ...  47 

Justice  or  Trade          .         .         .        ...         .86 

Kansas .  101 

Lawrence,  The  Defense  of         .         ...         *  89 

Lessons,  Our  .         .         .     -   •        •        •        •        •  83 

Liberty  and  Charity,  Of     .         .         .  ;      .         .         .  64 

Life  and  Love          .        .        .        *        ...  114 

Life's  Dower       .        ,        .        .        •        •        «        •  I29 

Lincoln,  Abraham  (1863)         r        .         .         »         .  13 

Long?  How        ......••  53 

Lost  One,  My .  221 

Love's  Fear         .         .         .         •         ....  206 

"Love  is  Deep,  My"      .         .         .         .         .         •  205 

Love's  Marvel     .         .         .         .         ...         •  17 

Magdalena       .         .         .         »         .         ...»  176 

Marriage  Hymn          .        .        .        .        .        •         «  147 

Memoriam,  In          .         •         •         ...         .  58 

"Mollie"    .         ...         .         •         •         •         •  192 

Mother  Remembrance    .         «         .         .      '•  -•_  178 

Name,  A  Man's          .                 .        .        .,        .         .  163 

Nameless         .        .        .        .        .        .        •    •    .  180 

xiii 


Nannie's  Picture 3I 

Need  You  Not,  We 79 

Nobility I7I 

Notre  Dame,  In V       ^    .  3O 

Old  Man's  Idyl,  An   .         .         .         .        ,         .         .  I57 

Outcast,  Song  of  the      .         .        „         .         .         .  ^5 

"Pass,  But  Let  It"  .               :.         ...      v       .         .  2I3 

Passion    .......  JQ 

Patience      «        .        .         .         .         .        .  Zg 

Peril,  In           *         .         .,        .         .         .         .  15 

Picture,  A  .         .         .         .         .         ,         .         .  IO6 

Pittsburg,  Hymn  of        .        .        ,      -.        i  '.    .  142 

Poet's  Wealth,  The    .         .        .                 ...  223 

Prize  Fight,  The     .         .        .         .        .        .        .  T$g 

Progress,  Voice  of      .         .         ,         ,         .         .         .  125 

Question,  The         .         .         .         .         .         ,  gi 

Rally!          .         .         .         .         .         .         .     \  .         .  55 

Reconciliation         .         .         «         .     ,   .         .         .  172 

Remember,  I      »       ..        .        ,         .         .  J^T 

"Rest,  He  Giveth  His  Beloved"          .        .        .  194 

Rest,  The  Spirit  of    .         .        .        .        ,     ...  147 

Retrospective  and  Introspective   .         .         .         .  69 

Salvete  Milites!          .:        .        .        .        .        .         .  61 

Scrapbook,  In  a               .         .         .         .         .         .  24 

Seamstress,  Song  of  the    .         ,        ,         »      f.         .  187 

Sentinel  Thoughts           .         .         .         ,         .         .  ^^ 

xiv 


PAGE. 

Silence  Still 20 

Slain,  My n 

Soul's  Despair,  A 135 

Spring,  Song  of 115 

"Subdue  You,  We  Will" 93 

Suicide,  Written  on  the  Night  of  His  ...  33 

Summer  Night    .         »        .   .  •'    »•       ,.         ,         .         .  210 

Swing,  David           \    •     ,        *,         .         .         *         .  ,  22 

Sword  Song,  My         ,         *         .         »      -.*  '     V        .  40 

Symbolisms      .      •"*'•'•'       ,         ,         .         .       .  .  3 

Thought,  The  Palace  of    .         .                  .         .         .  216 

Tones,  My  Lost       .         .         . .       .         .         »         .  224 

Tress,  A  Golden         .         «•?•'«         .         .         *  149 

Truth,  The       .         .         .         ,         .         .     '  .         .  28 

Two     .         ...       .—.•••.         .         .  in 

"Vates"          .        .        .        .       ..       ';•.       .        .  32 

Viola's  Song        »         .         ,         .         .         .         .         .17 

Woman's  Breath,  A         .         .         .         .         «         .  168 
Writing,  To  a  Lady  Chiding  Me  for  Not        .  ,         .26 

Year  Ago,  A   .         .        .        ,        »        ,        .        ,  21 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Richard  Realf  in  1878    .          .         .         .  Frontispiece- 

The  Poet's  Mother     .         .         ...  .         .       34 

Realf  in  1858  and  1864  ....  .         .           69 

The  Poet's  Grave       .         .                           .  112 


MEMOIR 


MEMOIR. 


RICHARD  REALF  was  born  at  Framfield,  Sussex 
County,  England,  on  the  I4th  of  June,  1834.  His  sister, 
Mrs.  Sarah  Whapham,  gives  as  the  date  the  same  month 
and  day  in  the  year  1832.  The  poet  himself,  in  his 
autobiographical  notes,  written  for  the  "  Little  Classics  " 
series,  gives  the  later  date,  and  all  correlative  testimony 
goes  to  prove  its  correctness.  The  poet's  venerable 
lather,  writing  after  the  death  of  his  gifted  son  to  the 
latter's  warm  friend,  now  deceased,  the  Rev.  Alexander 
Clark,  D.D.,  of  Pittsburg,  declares  that  his  son  "was 
a  child  of  wonders  for  learning."  He  could  "  read  well 
at  three  and  a  half  years  old"  —  his  mother,  Martha, 
being  his  teacher,  for  there  was  no  school  near.  He 
was  fond  of  plaving  preacher,  of  building  chapels,  and 
of  gathering  the  neighbor  children  as  a  congregation. 
For  a  child  he  sang  well,  and  was  fond  of  giving  out 
hymns.  He  often  said,  "  It  will  be  funny  when  I  get  to 
be  a  parson  and  preach!"  At  chapel  Sunday-school  he 
was  always  at  the  head  of  his  class,  as  he  was  also  at 
the  day-school.  Before  he  was  nine  years  old  he  wrote 
a  few  lines  on  the  death  of  some  rabbits.  He  worked 
in  the  field  at  an  early  age,  and  then  went  "to  service" 


for  a  time.  As  he  wished  to  go  to  sea,  his  father  went 
with  him  to  the  navy  yard  at  Portsmouth.  He  was 
rejected,  however,  and  then  returned  to  Brighton,  where 
an  elder  daughter,  Ellen,  was  employed  in  the  house 
hold  service  of  Sir  John  Cordy  Burrows,  M.D.  The 
father's  letter  states  that  Mrs.  Parnell  Stafford  early 
recognized  the  boy's  ability,  and  aided  materially  in 
giving  him  a  good  education  in  the  Burrow's  household. 
After  a  short  period  of  service  he  became  a  secretary 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stafford,  and  when  Mr.  Stafford  died, 
he  made  his  wife  promise  to  care  for  the  boy  Richard. 
Some  immature  poems  were  published  under  the  title 
of  "  Guesses  at  the  Beautiful,"  when  he  was  seventeen. 
His  father  writes  that  it  was  after  this  that  Lady  Byron 
aided  him,  stating  that  she  desired  to  make  a  "  farmer" 
of  his  son.  This,  of  course,  is  incorrect,  as  Real  was 
"articled"  to  a  land  steward  in  charge  of  the  Noel 
estate  in  Derbyshire,  a  business  of  a  semi-professional 
character,  requiring  a  knowledge  of  law  and  land  values 
and  uses.  The  boy  poet  had  previously  worked  in  the 
studio  of  the  sculptor  Gibson.  His  eyes,  however,  failed 
him.  Mr.  Realf,  Sr.,  states,  as  does  Mrs.  Sarah  Whap- 
ham,  that  Mr.  John  Burrows,  of  Brighton,  England,  was 
at  the  time  of  Richard  Realf's  death,  and  probably  still 
is,  in  possession  of  personal  papers  relative  to  the  poet, 
which  his  father  and  himself  had  gathered.  These 
papers  have  never  yet  been  made  public. 

Sir   John   Cordy    Burrows,  by  whom    Richard    Realf 
was  first  employed  at  Brighton*   he  being  then  in  his 

xxii 


twelfth  year,  was  by  profession  a  physician,  and  had 
been  mayor  of  Brighton.  He  was  made  a  knight  on 
the  occasion  of  some  royal  visit,  as  is  the  custom  in 
Great  Britain,  and  was  a  man  of  liberal  mind  and  gener 
ous  public  spirit.  He  was  always  the  friend  of  the 
gifted  boy,  and  when  the  first  grave  misfortune  befell 
him,  stood  by  and  aided  effectually,  as  did  also  Miss 
de  Gardinier,  a  prominent  lady  in  Brighton,  the 
daughter  of  a  retired  colonel,  who  was  well  known 
then  as  the  personal  friend  of  Louis  Philippe.  The 
ex-mayor  and  this  generous-hearted  lady  were  the  ones 
who  helped  Realf  to  his  American  career,  and  Dr. 
Loomis,  of  New  York  City,  secured  for  him  the  position 
of  assistant  superintendent  of  the  Five  Points  House  of 
Industry,  then  the  most  notable  beneficent  institution 
in  the  metropolis. 

The  birthplace  of  Richard  Realf  L  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  loveliest  sections  of  south  England,  the  land 
of  lush  greenery,  flowers,  and  natural  beauty.  It  is 
the  famous  Arundel  Castle,  one  of  the  homes  of  the 
Howard  family,  made  more  famous  in  later  years  by 
the  labors  of  the  Arundel  Society  in  unearthing,  pre 
paring,  and  publishing  the  early  movements,  deeds,  ac 
counts,  etc.,  of  the  feudal  dukes  of  Norfolk. 

Realf  was  a  boy  of  nine  years  when  he  wrote  his  first 
rhymes ;  he  was  then  going  to  a  neighboring  village  school 
through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  John  Whapham.  This 
gentleman  was  a  market  gardener  of  considerable  means, 
a  warm  friend  of  the  Realf  family,  and  to  his  son  at  a 


later  date  Sarah  Realf  was  married.  Richard  Realf 
was  the  fifth  child  in  a  family  of  ten,  several  of  whom 
died  during  childhood.  Two  of  his  brothers  were 
soldiers  in  the  British  army,  both  becoming  non-com 
missioned  officers,  and  serving  with  honor  in  the  Crimea, 
each  receiving  the  Victoria  Cross.  One  brother  is  still 
living  at  Buxteed,  where  the  parents  also  resided  at  the 
date  of  the  poet's  death.  The  father  was  a  rural  police 
man  in  1834,  enrolled  in  the  West  Sussex  Constabulary, 
a  position  which,  in  the  almost  minute  social  hierarchy 
of  English  rural  life,  must  be  regarded  as  quite  superior 
to  that  of  the  agricultural  laborer.  He  is  a  man  of 
character,  greatly  respected  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
evidently  endowed  with  much  more  than  the  average 
of  bucolic  intelligence.  Martha,  his  wife,  is  also  a  person 
of  superior  breeding  and  ability.  She  was  Richard's 
first  teacher.  It  is  reported  that  after  hearing  any  hymn 
or  song  twice  or  thrice  sung  by  his  mother,  he  could, 
when  two  years  old,  catch  the  words  and  tune  and  sing 
them  perfectly  in  a  sweet  baby  voice.  He  never  worked 
in  the  field,  as  most  village  and  country  boys  did  in  the 
rural  England  of  that  date.  Mr.  Whapham  paid  about 
sixty  cents  per  week  for  him  at  the  nearest  school,  requir 
ing  him  only  to  work  about  his  shop  and  garden  on 
Saturdays  in  return.  Richard  worked  also  for  the 
village  undertaker,  but  he  was  a  rude  drinking  and 
swearing  man,  and  the  boy  could  not  get  along  with 
him.  After  this  his  father  took  him  to  Portsmouth,  but 
the  commandant  refused  to  enroll  him.  He  had  two 


xxiv 


sisters  "  at  service  "  in  Brighton:  Ellen,  who  lived  in  the 
Burrows'  household,  and  Mary  Ann,  who  was  a  domestic 
in  that  of  the  Staffords.  Mr.  Stafford  was  a  physician 
and  a  man  of  fine  attainments  and  intellectual  character, 
sympathetic  in  spirit,  and  was  at  once  attracted  to  the 
handsome  village  boy,  whos-e  very  features  spoke  of  the 
affluent  soul  within.  Richard  was  early  transferred  to 
the  Stafford  home,  not  as  a  domestic,  but  an  amanuensis. 
His  handwriting  was  always  exquisitely  formed,  clear 
and  perfect.  The  San  Francisco  reporter,  to  whom  Col. 
Tappan  handed  his  famous  death  sonnet — his  "Swan 
Song,"  as  I  like  to  term  it, — declared  he  had  never  seen  a 
manuscript  firmer  in  strokes  or  more  clear  in  ensemble, 
even  in  the  portion  which  had  evidently  been  written 
after  the  poison  took  effect. 

Mrs.  Stafford  belonged  to  the  famous  Stewart-Parnell 
family,  being  an  aunt  to  the  great  Irish  leader.  The 
boy  poet  received  his  education  by  her  bounty  and  it  was 
a.good  one.  He  read  well  and  widely,  was  grounded  in 
Latin,  and  knew  something  of  French.  Of  literature, 
classic  and  English,  he  had  quite  a  wide  range  and 
possessed  a  severe,  keen  critical  taste.  Richard  Realf, 
in  deportment  and  daily  life,  was  always  as  if  to  the 
' '  manner  born,"  and  that  of  the  best  school,  too.  Unlike 
other  Englishmen  of  my  generation  whom  I  have  known 
as  winning  culture  and  securing  recognition,  though 
born  of  labor  and  struggle,  he  was  never  too  shy  or 
overforward,  he  never  felt  any  disability  because  of 
origin,  or  forced  personal  recognition.  He  obtained 

xxv 


it  naturally,  and  if  the  "  blue  blood  "  theory  had  any 
vitality  in  fact,  those  who  met  him  and  knew  not  of 
his  family  associations,  would  have  readily  testified 
of  him  as  a  born  aristocrat — a  gentleman  by  birth.  He 
was  one  by  nature.  The  boy  was  radical  also,  in  the 
English  sense,  and  of  the  period.  The  glamor  of  '48 
was  still  in  the  mental  atmosphere.  What  Charles 
Mackey,  Eliza  Cook,  Ebenezer  Elliot,  and  Gerald 
Massey  had  sung  for  Labor  and  Democracy,  was  still 
inspiring  and  uplifting.  There  was  a  social  fad  also  in 
patronizing  the  people,  when  individual  units  of  that 
somewhat  amorphous  material  showed  capacity  above 
the  average. 

In  the  "  Little  Classic  "  sketch  already  referred  to, 
Realf  describes  his  youthful  position  and  surroundings 
at  Brighton.  He  wrote: 

"At  the  age  of  fifteen  or  thereabouts  I  began  to 
write  verses — '  lisping  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers 
came.'  When  some  sixteen  years  old  I  hired  out  as 
'  boy-of-all-work  '  to  a  master  mechanic  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  grooming  his  horse,  taking  care  of  his  garden, 
and  generally  discharging  whatever  menial  duties  were 
allotted  to  me.  When  about  seventeen  I  grew  very 
weary  of  the  gross  character  of  my  surroundings.  I  did 
not  live  at  home,  but  at  my  'master's,'  who  was  a 
drunken  and  brutal  man,  and  with  the  consent  of  my 
parents  paid  a  visit  to  my  elder  sister,  then  living  in 
the  family  of  a  physician  at  Brighton,  Sussex,  as  a 
domestic  servant.  The  wife  of  this  gentleman,  a  lady 
of  literary  taste,  manifested  a  great  liking  for  me,  and 
at  her  invitation  I  became  her  amanuensis.  Two  or 


three  weeks  after  I  entered  on  this  new  life  her  husband 
died.  Shortly  thereafter  an  eminent  physician,  who 
had  paid  special  attention  to  the  then  new  science  of 
phrenology,  visited  Brighton  for  the  purpose  of  deliver 
ing  a  series  of  lectures  on  that  subject  before  the 
Brighton  Scientific  Associaton,  of  which  he  was  an  hon 
orary  member.  He  was  the  guest  of  my  benefactress, 
and  became  interested  in  me.  One  day  he  borrowed 
from  me,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of  more  careful 
reading,  a  number  of  my  crude  ventures  in  verse.  The 
next  morning  I  learned  to  my  astonishment  that  in  his 
lecture  of  the  preceding  evening  he  had  read  some  of 
them  in  illustrating  the  organ  of  ideality.  Brighton, 
the  fashionable  watering-place  of  England,  was  then  in 
the  height  of  the  '  society '  season,  and  among  his 
auditors  were  many  whose  names  were  famous  in  litera 
ture  and  science.  A  great  many  people  came  to  see  me 
thereupon,  among  them  Lady  Byron  and  her  daughter 
Ada.  Rogers,  the  poet,  sent  for  me,  being  too  old  and 
infirm  to  come  himself.  Mrs.  Jameson,  Miss  Mitford, 
Miss  Martineau,  Lady  Jane  Peel,  and  others,  also  began 
to  pet  me.  I  had  shown  the  possession  of  some  slight 
imitative  talent  as  a  molder  of  images  in  clay,  and 
Gibson,  the  sculptor,  thought  there  was  the  making  of 
a  creative  artist  in  me.  Among  themselves  they  de 
termined  to  publish  a  collection  of  my  verses,  and  this 
was  done  in  1852,  under  the  title  of  '  Guesses  at  the 
Beautiful,'  the  editor,  Charles  de  la  Pryme,  Fellow  of 
Trinity  College,  being  a  nephew  of  Thackeray.  The 
little  book  was,  of  course,  valuable  only  for  what  it 
promised,  not  at  all  for  what  it  contained.  Lady  Byron 
grew  greatly  interested  in  me,  chiefly,  at  first,  on 
account  of  the  representations  made  to  her  concerning 
me  by  Rev.  Frederick  W.  Robertson,  who  resided  but 

xxvii 


two  doors  from  the  home  of  the  lady  with  whom  I  lived. 

"  The  natural  tendency  of  it  all  was  to  make  me  for 
getful  of  the  honest  peasant  ancestry  from  which  I 
sprang.  So  I  wrote  to  Lady  Byron,  who  was  then,  in 
1853,  at  her  country  residence,  begging  her  to  get  me 
away  from  these  false  surroundings.  I  think  that,  with 
the  exception  of  my  mother,  she  was  the  noblest  woman 
I  ever  knew.  She  at  once  made  arrangements  for  me  to 
go  down  into  Leicestershire,  to  her  nephew,  Mr.  Noel, 
manager  of  one  of  her  large  estates,  with  whom  I  was 
to  study  the  science  of  agriculture  as  well  as  prosecute 
my  literary  purposes." 

His  sister  Sarah  intimates  that  Mrs.  Stafford  was  over 
indulgent  with  her  brother,  and  gave  him  an  undue 
amount  of  pocket  money,  as  well  as  jewelry.  There  is 
no  doubt  at  all  that  Realf  was  petted  a  good  deal,  and 
that  by  a  social  circle  which  might  readily  unfit  him  for 
the  struggles  of  life.  He,  however,  had  the  good  sense 
to  perceive  himself  this  incongruity,  and  it  was  at  his  own 
request  that  he  was  sent  to  Derbyshire  to  learn  the 
business  of  a  land  steward.  He  was  then  well  on  in 
his  nineteenth  year.  Remaining  there  for  a  number  of 
months,  and  apparently  with  content  and  reasonable 
success,  the  village  household  in  Sussex,  as  well  as  the 
Byron  circle  at  Brighton,  was  soon  roused  to  disquietude 
by  reports  of  Realf's  disappearance,  and  of  a  social 
scandal  in  the  Noel  mansion.  After  some  weeks  of 
doubt  as  to  his  whereabouts,  Richard  Realf  was  found 
by  his  father  on  the  streets  of  Southampton,  in  a  semi- 
demented  state,  ragged,  bare-footed,  destitute,  and  sing- 


ing  ballads  for  pennies.  He  was  taken  home  and  care 
fully  nursed.  It  appeared  also  that  before  reaching  this 
condition  in  which  he  was  found,  he  had  lived  in  an  ex 
pensive  hotel  at  Eastbourne,  a  fashionable  watering- 
place,  under  an  assumed  name,  where  he  run  up  quite  a 
large  account.  This  was  met  shortly  after  by  his  father. 
Some  weeks  had  passed,  during  which  the  young  man 
had  wandered  over  England,  indulging  in  acts  which  cer 
tainly  indicated  a  disordered  mind.  What  had  occurred 
has  never  been  made  clear;  that  there  was  a  woman 
in  the  case,  is  certain.  She  was  of  the  Noel  family  also, 
and  several  years  the  senior  of  the  young  poet.  His  sis 
ter  Sarah  states  that  this  lady  became  pregnant,  and  an 
elder  brother,  arriving  from  the  continent,  found  Realf, 
and  beat  him  unmercifully.  Richard  himself  never 
spoke  of  it,  except  as,  in  his  death  poem,  he  sung  that — 

He  wrought  for  liberty,  till  his  own  wound 
(He  had  been  stabbed),  concealed  with  painful  art 

Through  wasting  years,  mastered  him,  and  he 

swooned, 

And  sank  there  where  you  see  him  lying  now 
With  the  word  "  Failure  "  written  on  his  brow. — 

The  story  indicated  in  that  other  pathetic  lyric,  "A 
Golden  Tress,"  may  also  perhaps  illustrate  the  mental 
as  well  as  physical  effect  of  the  injury  then  received. 

For  myself  I  have,  after  patient  delving  and  ju 
dicial  inquiry,  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Noel 
episode,  in  its  injurious  effects,  mental  as  well  as 
physical,  (Realf  always  complained  of  periodic  trouble 


in  his  head,  and  once  told  me  this  was  due  to  an  injury 
received  by  him  when  he  was  in  his  twentieth  year),  is 
mainly  responsible  for  much  of  the  peculiar  conduct 
that  marked  his  after  life.  In  the-  ofttimes  over 
wrought  imagination,  perhaps  unduly  "  peering  into 
the  immortalities,"  the  recurrent  effect  of  the  perma 
nent  injury  inflicted  by  the  spirit  of  brutal  caste  as  much 
as  by  the  passion  of  virtuous  indignation,  furnishes 
at  least  a  rational  explanation  of  acts  that  are  so  far 
foreign  to  all  other  things  that  are  so  plain  in  Realf'slife, 
that  they  can  only  be  explained  by  temporary  dementia 
and  not  by  the  hypothesis  of  overwrought  and  melan 
cholic  temperament.  Realf  was  gentle,  refined,  cour 
teous,  "breathing  freely  in  high  altitudes  of  spirit," 
beloved  by  all  but  one  who  came  in  contact  with  him; 
yet  his  days  are  marred  by  strange  disappearances,  his 
life  by  weird  passion,  and  his  career  degraded  by  acts 
of  apparent  dishonor.  All  who  knew  him  as  I  knew 
him  would  defend  him  against  such  expressions,  and 
yet  they  remain  true,  because  the  facts  can  not  be  ob 
literated.  With  no  desire  to  excuse  or  to  extenuate  be 
cause  my  friend,  in  spite  of  all,  is  the  David  of  my  early 
and  later  years,  admired  in  life  and  the  more  beloved  in 
the  decades  that  have  followed  his  untimely  departure  by 
reason  of  the  sadness  I  have  traced  and  the  suffering 
that,  I  have  learned,  clustered  so  bleak  and  black  about 
him,  I  have  reached  the  conclusion  that  Richard  Realf 
suffered  at  times  from  some  form  of  dementia. 

It  was  then  that  his  best  friends  in  Brighton,  as  well 

XXX 


as  the  dear  homely  household  in  the  Sussex  village, 
deemed  it  wise  that  he  should  make  a  place  for  himself 
in  the  United  States.  His  sister  Mary,  not  long  mar 
ried,  had  already  sailed  over  the  seas  and  settled  with 
her  husband  at  Cumberland,  Maryland.  An  aunt,  Mrs. 
Hynes,  had  long  before  emigrated  and  her  family  still 
live  in  one  of  the  Western  States.  Richard  Realf 
landed  in  New  York  during  April,  1855,  and  began  a  new 
and  hopeful  life  at  once  at  the  Five  Points  House  of 
Industry. 

One  of  the  strongest  impressions  made  on  Realf  by 
his  youthful  residence  at  Brighton  came  through  his 
contact  with  a  famous  evangelical  clergyman  and  orator 
of  the  established  Church — the  Rev.  Frederick  W.  Rob 
ertson — two  volumes  of  whose  eloquent  sermons  were 
published  in  this  country  some  thirty-five  years  since. 
It  was  at  his  suggestion  that  Richard  Realf  became  an 
active  member  of  the  Brighton  Workingmen's  Institute. 
He  wrote  in  after  days  several  eloquent  and  grateful 
tributes  to  the  memory  of  the  English  divine,  two  of 
which  appeared  in  the  Christian  Radical  (Pittsburg)  in 
1871,  and  I  find  in  a  letter  from  the  field,  written  during 
1863,  the  following: 

"  His  voice  was  the  rarest  to  which  I  have  ever  lis 
tened.  A  blind  man,  being  a  stranger  to  our  language, 
would  inevitably  have  loved  him  hearing  him  speak; 
and  there  was  no  passion  that  he  could  not  lull,  no  sor 
row  that  he  could  not  soothe,  no  devil  that  he  could  not 
exorcise,  nor  any  child  whom  he  could  not  charm  with  the 


benignancy  of  his  voice.  How  the  people  of  Brighton 
flocked  to  him!  Peers  and  princesses,  the  artist  and 
the  poet  with  their  fine  spiritual  cravings,  Gunnybags, 
the  millionaire,  with  his  heart  of  a  metallic  hue,  the 
fisherman  from  his  boat,  the  seamstress  from  her 
needle,  the  plowman  from  his  fields,  and  the  prisoner 
from  his  cell, — all,  of  whatever  caste,  class,  clique,  or 
condition,  in  the  light  of  his  sublime  manhood  stood 
equal  unto  themselves  as  unto  him  and  unto  God.  I 
have  within  the  walls  of  his  church  witnessed  the  finest 
courtesies  that  I  ever  saw,  the  infection  of  his  glorious 
graciousness  being  upon  all  his  listeners." 

Another  influence  that  affected  Realf  for  good  was 
that  of  a  large-hearted  American  reformer,  Mr.  Pease, 
the  transformer  of  the  once  infamous  Five  Points  of 
New  York.  Realf  spent  sixteen-months  in  the  House  of 
Industry.  He  was  as  ready  at  the  toil  of  teaching  and 
serving  as  we  in  Kansas  and  the  army  found  him  in 
after  days  at  fighting  for  liberty  and  union.  During 
this  bright  period  it  was  my  fortune  to  meet  Realf  and 
become  his  friend.  As  chairman  of  a  lecture  committee 
in  a  young  men's  temperance  and  literary  club,  I  in 
vited  him  to  deliver  to  us  a  lecture  on  poverty  and  labor, 
which  he  did  with  the  heartiest  interest.  His  days 
were  busy  ones.  Elsewhere  in  this  memoir  I  have 
sketched  the  work  of  that  period.  But  he  early  be 
came  animated  by  that  restless  and  heroic  spirit 
which  filled  the  "fifties"  with  its  almost  divine  fury 
of  resistance  to  slavery.  This  fresh  voice  was  not 
one  of  sloth;  its  clear  special  tenor  was  resonant  with 

xxxii 


protest  against  suffering  and  wrong,  pure  in  its  appeals 
for  righteousness,  and  passionate  in  denunciation  of 
oppression.  He  made  friends  on  every  hand,  and  the 
memories  then  created  still  keep  his  presence  as  a 
glowing  radiance. 

Among  the  letters  sent  me,  I  find  one  of  the  Five 
Points  period  written  to  his  sister  Sarah,  which  contains 
the  only  reference  I  can  find  to  the  sister  and  family 
who  located  in  Maryland.  The  letter  is  dated  at  New 
York,  July  28th,  1856.  The  poet  writes  to  "dear 
Sallie": 

"I  have  been  down  into  Maryland  and  Virginia,, 
amongst  my  own  and  your  dear  friends.  Don't  I  wish 
you  could  have  been  with  me — that's  all.  No,  it  isn't 
all;  for  then,  much  as  I  enjoyed  myself,  and  pleas 
antly  as  the  time  passed,  my  visit  would  have 
been  a  still  happier  one.  They  live  400  miles  away 
from  New  York,  but  with  our  facilities  for  traveling  it 
really  is  not  much  further  than  from  Uskfield  to  London. 
We  do  not  in  America  measure  distances  by  miles,  but 
by  hours.  I  started  at  6  o'clock  at  night,  and  had  I 
traveled  all  the  way  without  stopping,  should  have 
reached  Cumberland  at  noon  the  next  day.  Pretty 
rapid — eh,  Sallie? 

"  I  heard  from  Miss  de  Gardinier  the  other  day. 
I  was  so  pleased  that  I  couldn't  help  crying,  when, 
she  told  me  that  you  were  to  go  and  live  with  Ellen. 
She  says  Ellen  is  so  good,  which,  being  the  case,  I 
hope  you  will  follow  the  advice  and  instructions  of 
that  dear  sister  implicitly  and  without  questioning. 
Do  you  know,  Sallie,  that  unhesitating  obedience  is 
the  highest  altitude  unto  which  any  one  can  attain  ? 

xxxiii 


Not,  of  course,  obedience  to  wrong  or  falsehood — 
but  obedience  to  right  and  truth.  I  know  that  I  used 
to  think  very  differently — and  so  the  sorrows  and 
the  agonies  came;  had  I  understood  this  better,  these 
might  have  been  spared.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
come  to  America?  I  guess  you  would.  Yes,  but  I 
don't  want  you  to  do  so.  What  would  our  dear,  dear 
father  and  mother  do,  if  we  should  all  leave  them  ?  I 
should  like  much — much  more  than  I  can  say — to  see 
you  and  have  you  near  me,  but  I  would  rather  never 
see  you  than  consent  to  your  leaving  England.  I 
haven't  much  time  to  talk  about  this,  Sallie,  but  my 
heart  is  very  full  with  it,  nevertheless.  If  father  and 
mother  were  ten  or  fifteen  years  younger,  then  I  would 
try  and  bring  you  all  over,  but  that  can't  be  now;  and 

so  I  want  you  to  stop  near  them 

"You  are  almost  a  woman  now,  dear  Sallie,  which, 
when  I  think  of,  makes  me  tremble.  From  my  position 
I  see  so  much  that  is  fearful — and  in  the  young  too — 
that  it  makes  me  doubly  anxious  for  your  welfare.  You 
will  try  to  be  very  good,  won't  you,  Sallie  dear? 
Father  and  mother,  you  know,  are  growing  old  now, 
and  couldn't  bear  much  sorrow.  They  shall  never  have 
to  endure  any  on  your  account,  shall  they,  Sallie  ?  " 

Realf's  memories  of  his  early  home  remained  vivid 
to  the  last.  I  find  another  letter  to  sister  Sarah,  written 
in  1858,  at  the  period  of  his  John  Brown  relations.  It 
can,  however,  be  referred  to  here: 

"CHATHAM,  CANADA  WEST,  MAY  i4th,  1858. 

"  Good  morning,  my  beloved  sister!  It  is  '  Fair-day  ' 
at  Uckfield.  Did  you  think  I  had  forgotten  it  ?  But  I 
haven't.  I  never  forget  anything  connected,  however 

xxxiv 


distantly,  with  my  dear  home.  I  remember  all  the 
trees:  the  willow,  the  oak,  the  ash,  and  the  poplar.  I 
know  all  the  hedgerows,  the  copses,  the  little  brooks 
and  the  silent  springs,  by  heart.  I  recollect  the  paths 
where  the  daisies  grew;  the  hillsides  where  the  prim 
roses  and  the  violets  nestled;  the  meadows  where  the 
cowslips  bloomed.  ,  .  .  .  How  many  times,  when  I 
have  been  worn  and  weary,  have  I  flung  myself  down 
on  the  coarse  prairie  grass,  to  shut  the  eyes  of  my 
senses,  and  open  the  eyes  of  my  soul  upon  home.  If 
ever  you  should  be  such  a  wanderer  as  I  have  been, 
roaming  among  strangers,  cast  in  perilous  places,  O 
how  your  heart  will  go  down  upon  its  knees  with  a  chok 
ing  cry  for  home!  Why,  Sallie,  I  have  sung  'Home, 
sweet  Home,'  when  no  eye  but  God's  has  seen  me,  and 
when  no  ear  but  His  has  listened;  because  if  I  had  not 
sung  it  my  full  heart  would  have  broken;  and  the  tears 
would  roll  down  my  cheeks,  and  I  would  tremble  till  I 
could  hardly  sit  on  my  horse 

"Ah  me!  dear  Sallie!  It  is  very  long  now  since  I, 
a  little  child,  would  wander  in  and  out  among  the 
crowded  cattle,  and  around  the  '  shows,'  and  about 
the  swarming  streets,  walking  in  a  sort  of  dreamy 
wonder,  marveling  at  all  I  saw.  I  have  passed 
into  youth  and  manhood;  gray  streaks  are  among  my 
brown  hair — my  cheeks  are  thin — there  is  care  upon 
my  brow.  I  criticise  now,  I  weigh  defects,  I  balance 
merits,  I  doubt,  I  argue,  I  arrive  at  logical  conclusions; 
and  yet,  ever  and  anon,  as  to-day,  the  memory  of  some 
simple  circumstances — some  '  fair,'  perhaps,  or  face,  it 
may  be — will  steal  like  an  old  tune  across  my  heart, 
smiting,  as  with  another  rod  of  Moses,  the  rock  that 
was  once  my  soul;  and  presently  the  hard  granite  will 
melt  away  with  fervent  heat,  revealing  the  old  perennial 


waters  of  blessed  childhood,  the  everlasting  beautiful- 
ness  of  the  time  wherein  my  mother  called  me  '  Dickey.' 
As  I  grew  into  my  'teens,'  it  wounded  my  precocity 
and  pride,  this  childish  name  of  '  Dickey.'  I  thought 
I  was  too  big  for  it,  and  that  when  I  put  off  my  '  pina 
fores '  for  'round  frocks,'  I  also  ought  to  put  off  the 
childish  name  I  have  given  for  the  manlier  one  of 
'Richard.'  I  used  to  murmur  in  my  heart  sometimes 
at  what  I  called  the  obstinacy  of  mother  in  adhering  to 
the  old  name;  but  O,  Sallie,  what  would  I  not  give  to 
day  if  I  could  hear  her  low,  sweet  voice  calling  unto  me 
as  of  yore  ?  How  I  would  leap  at  the  blessed  sound — 
how  I  would  rush  forward  to  meet  her — how  I  would 
kneel  to  ask  her  blessing,  and  how  tenderly  and  lov 
ingly  I  would  wait  upon  her  steps  as  I  led  her  slowly 
home!  .  .  .  '  •. 

RICHARD." 

This  letter  was  written  at  the  close  of  the  convention 
which  pledged  its  members  to  death  in  a  wild,  heroic 
effort  to  overthrow  slavery. 

In  August  of  1856,  Richard  Realf  determined  on  an 
act  which  shaped  and  colored  all  his  after  life,  and 
which  in  its  effects  may  be  said  to  have  wrought  its 
graver  discolorations  also.  It  is  easy  to  speculate  on 
what  might  have  come  in  th£  way  of  exalting  and 
abiding  literature  if  the  young  poet  had  moved  in 
more  sober  and  ordered  ways  ;  but  we  do  know,  how 
ever,  that  he  nobly  strove,  often  aided  efficiently,  was 
always  the  most  resonant  of  voices,  and  that  life  became 
broader  because  of  him,  even  if  his  own  fell  prone  at 
last  among  the  gruesome  shadows  by  which  his  footsteps 

xxxvi 


were  encompassed  and  sometimes  misled.  He  decided 
to  go  to  Kansas  and  take  a  man's  part  in  a  man's  strug 
gle—that  of  making  a  State  free  from  slavery. 

An  interesting  account  of  his  appearance  there  comes 
to  me  from  an  old  friend,  and  as  it  covers  his  move 
ments  quite  fully,  I  insert  it  here: 

"  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  meeting  with  Richard 
Realf.  It  was  during  those  stormy  and  eventful  days 
when  the  question  of  slavery  or  freedom  for  a  conti 
nent  was  being  fought  out  on  the  plains  of  Kansas. 
The  Missouri  river  was  blockaded  for  the  free-state 
settlers  by  the  pro-slavery  population  along  its  banks. 
I  had  gathered  a  large  part  of  young  men  to  march 
overland  through  Iowa,  to  aid  the  free-state  cause  by 
votes,  and  if  need  be,  with  strong  arms. 

"  It  was  in  September,  1856,  and  our  party  had  reached 
Mt.  Pleasant,  Iowa,  by  rail,  and  from  thence  were  mak 
ing  ready  for  their  long  march  of  over  600  miles. 
Senator  Harlan  and  Gov.  Grimes  came  and  gave  us 
addresses  of  welcome,  and  words  of  cheer.  Teams  had 
been  procured  to  carry  the  baggage  of  the  men,  and  a 
supply  of  arms  and  ammunition  to  reenforce  the  little 
Spartan  band  which  held  the  decisive  point  in  the 
struggle  for  free  soil.  The  train  was  about  to  start, 
when  a  young  man,  breathless,  and  with  face  flushed 
with  heat,  came  running  from  the  cars.  He  inquired 
for  me,  and  presented  a  very  kind  letter  from  Mr. 
Pease,  of  the  House  of  Industry,  in  New  York,  where 
the  bearer  had  been  a  teacher.  The  indorsement  was  all 
that  could  be  desired,  but  Realf  hardly  needed  it.  Sus 
picious  as  all  were  of  spies  and  traitors  in  our  camp,  his 
soulful  earnestness  and  noble  devotion  would  have  won 
all  hearts  to  him.  His  splendid  face  was  radiant  with  a 

xxxvii 


in  the  following  August.  He  never  went  back.  Dur 
ing  these  months  his  life  was  one  of  ceaseless  agita 
tion  and  literary  activity.  He  wrote  while  in  Kansas 
at  least  twenty-five  of  his  more  notable  lyrics,  and  to 
his  three  months'  residence  in  the  east  is  due  nearly  or 
quite  a  score  of  sonnets  and  love-lyrics  of  the  purest 
tone  and  rhythmic  melody. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  the  months  of  waiting 
and  drilling  at  Springdale,  Iowa,  where  John  Brown 
with  his  son  Owen,  nine  Kansas  men,  and  one  man  of 
color,  prepared  themselves  for  that  strange  overture  to 
the  Titanic  struggle  against  chattel  slavery  that  their 
captain  inaugurated  at  Harper's  Ferry,  Va.,  October 
17,  1859.  It  would  take  volumes  to  give  the  interesting 
details  of  the  quaint  and  simple  life  in  the  Iowa  Quaker 
settlement.  The  men  drilled  and  read  books  of  tactics 
and  war.  They  held  lyceum  and  had  debates  that 
made  them  famous  on  that  lonely  country-side.  Every 
body  knew  they  were  preparing  to  fight  slavery,  every 
one  thought  it  was  to  be  in  Kansas  and  Missouri,  and 
the  idea  that  the  free-state  war  was  to  be  carried  into 
the  Virginian  Dahomey  was  not  known  until  later  in 
1859.  The  brothers,  Edwin  and  Barclay  Coppoc,  left 
Springdale  to  join  John  Brown  in  Maryland.  As  Rich 
ard  Realf's  name  has  been  at  times  in  hasty  and 
ignorant  criticism  attached  to  an  anonymous  letter 
sent  in  the  fall  of  1859,  from  Cincinnati,  to  Floyd, 
Secretary  of  War,  declaring  that  John  Brown  de 
signed  to  attack  Harper's  Ferry,  the  matter  of  actual 

xl 


authorship  may  as  well  be  cleared  up  here.  Until 
within  the  past  two  years  I  have  always  charged  the 
writing  of  the  Floyd  letter  to  a  Mr.  Edmund  Babb,  of 
Cincinnati.  In  this  charge  I  have  been  mistaken,  and 
have  done  Mr.  Babb  such  injury  as  the  accusation  might 
bring,  for  which  I  hereby  express  my  profound  regret. 
A  brother  of  the  two  Coppocs,  who  served  with  Captain 
Brown,  published  in  an  Iowa  periodical  ( The  Midland 
Monthly),  October,  1895,  his  ungrounded  suspicion  that 
the  warning  letter  was  written  by  Realf.  The  state 
ment  was  absurd  on  its  face,  however,  but  it  had  the 
good  effect  of  bringing  out  the  truth  as  to  by  whom  and 
from  what  motives  the  letter  was  written.  The  former 
lieutenant  governor  of  Iowa,  Hon.  B.  F.  Gue,  told  in 
the  same  periodical  how  he  and  his  brother,  David  J. 
Gue,  now  of  New  York  city,  with  a  cousin,  A.  L.  Smith, 
of  Buffalo,  were  visiting  Moses  Sarney,  the  Quaker 
friend  at  whose  house  John  Brown  stayed  in  Spring 
field.  This  man  of  peace  told  the  three  persons  named 
of  the  intention  to  invade  Virginia,  and  expressed  at 
the  same  time  his  conviction  of  absolute  failure,  bring 
ing  death  to  all  concerned.  The  young  men  felt  the 
same  way,  and  in  that  spirit,  hoping  to  prevent  what 
they  considered  madness,  they  wrote  two  letters  un 
signed,  one  being  mailed  at  Cincinnati,  and  the  other  at 
Philadelphia.  Both  were  mailed  at  "  Big  Rock,"  Iowa, 
enclosed  in  envelopes  addressed  to  the  postmasters  of  the 
cities  named.  The  Cincinnati  letter  was  received.  The 
writer  of  the  letter  was  David  J.  Gue,  now  an  artist  and 

xli 


portrait  painter  in  New  York  city.  After  the  letter  was 
sent,  the  young  men  waited.  Then  came  the  blow  at 
Harper's  Ferry,  and  in  common  with  all  anti-slavery 
sympathizers  they  too  rose  to  the  measure  of  the  issues 
created.  Their  well-meant  effort  was  abortive,  and  on 
the  whole  they  were  not  displeased  that  it  should  so  be. 

I  shall  not  recite  the  story  of  John  Brown,  or  of  the 
Chatham  Convention.  It  belongs  to  another  volume, 
and  would  take  up  too  much  space  in  this  memoir. 
Realf  was  one  of  the  leading  spirits.  He  sustained 
with  fiery  eloquence  his  captain's  extreme  views.  Of 
John  Brown's  personal  influence  he  once  said  :  "  He 
possessed  that  strange  power  which  enables  one  man  to 
impress  many  with  his  views,  and  he  so  psychologized 
his  associates,  that,  seeing  only  through  his  medium  of 
vision,  they  consequently  were  unable  to  controvert  his 
theories;  therefore  the  movement  went  blindly  on.  For 
myself,  too,  it  is  certain  that  had  I  not  been  to  New 
York,  where.,  out  of  reach  of  his  great  mesmeric  power, 
I  could  in  some  sort  master  the  questions  involved,  I 
should  have  been  with  the  enterprise  to  the  bitter  end. 
I  should,  indeed,  have  had  no  other  choice.  Had  John 
Brown  sent  a  man  on  an  errand  to  Hades  he  must  have 
started  hither,  for  Brown  was  one  of  God's  own  com 
manders." 

Richard  Realf  was  selected  for  secretary  of  state  in 
the  skeleton  form  of  provisional  constitution  and  gov 
ernment  under  which  John  Brown  expected  to  control 
within  slave  territory,  the  slaves  he  was  to  make  free 

xlii 


by  fighting  for  and  with  them.  When  the  Chatham  Con 
vention  adjourned,  the  Browns,  the  father  and  the  son 
Owen,  Kagi,  Cook,  and  Realf,  with  others,  went  to 
Cleveland,  Ohio.  It  was  there  decided  that  the  revolu 
tionists  separate  for  a  brief  period,  and  Realf  determined, 
with  Captain  Brown's  approval,  to  go  first  to  New  York, 
and  thence  to  England,  not  only  to  see  his  people,  but 
with  voice  and  pen  to  endeavor  to  obtain  means  to  aid 
the  enterprise.  To  this  end  he  wrote  letters  to  George  L. 
Stearns  and  others,  who  were  sympathetic  with  Captain 
Brown's  aims,  though  not  knowing  then  his  plan  and 
place  of  attack.  There  is  no  word  to  be  found  during 
the  thirty-seven  years  of  my  constant  research  into  the 
movements  of  John  Brown  and  his  men,  the  result  of 
which  has  been  embodied  in  another  volume  of  mine, 
that  warrants  such  a  statement  as  was  made  by  a  writer 
in  the  Springfield  (Mass.)  Republican,  at  the  time  of 
Realf 's  death,  to  the  effect  that  his  alleged  "  betrayal" 
of  Captain  Brown  began  at  Cleveland,  from  where 
he  was  ordered  to  look  after  Hugh  Forbes  (as  the  news 
paper  critic  states),  an  English  drill-master,  who  was, 
owing  to  a  disagreement,  engaged  in  denouncing  John 
Brown's  purpose  to  the  leading  Republican  politicians. 
Realf  went  to  England  with  John  Brown's  consent.  J. 
H.  Kagi,  who  was  named  as  secretary  of  war,  and  was 
slain  during  the  fighting  of  October,  1859,  wrote  to  me 
some  time  in  June  asking  for  news  of  Realf,  and  in  that 
letter  said  they  had  had  no  word  from  him  direct  since  he 
left  to  go  to  England  with  the  captain's  consent.  Realf 

xliii 


said  the  change  of  his  views,  not  as  to  the  wrong  and 
unrighteousness  of  slavery  itself,  but  as  to  the  "  rightful- 
ness  "  of  the  proposed  method  of  assault,  began  with 
his  reading  for  the  first  time  Wayland's  "  Limitations  of 
the  Human  Will."  And  this  is  probably  the  entire 
truth,  for  there  is  abundant  evidence  to  show  that  he 
worked  arduously,  though  with  no  great  success,  to 
earn  money  lecturing  while  in  England;  that  he  never 
denied  personal  hostility  or  objection  to  the  existence 
of  slavery  in  England,  France,  or  in  the  South.  Col. 
Thomas  P.  Ochiltree,  the  well-known  Texan  and  New 
Yorker,  when  he  was  a  youth  himself,  knew  Realf  dur 
ing  the  summer  and  fall  of  1859.  He  greatly  admired 
the  brilliant  northerner,  who  openly  spoke  of  his  parti 
cipation  in  the  Kansas  Free  State  strife  and  against  the 
South.  Col.  Ochiltree  has  told  the  writer  of  many  such 
incidents.  Judge  Paschall,  by  whose  advice  and  action 
Realf  was  saved  from  mob  violence,  told  me  in  Wash 
ington  that  the  poet  never  denied  his  anti-slavery  feel 
ings. 

Realf  was  in  England  and  the  Channel  Islands  from 
late  in  June  till  early  in  September.  He  then  visited  Paris 
and  went  thence  to  Havre,  where  he  procured  a  cheap 
passage  to  the  United  States  on  a  cotton  ship  bound  for 
New  Orleans.  In  this  even  he  had  apparently  no  other 
purpose  than  to  get  a  chance  to  see  slavery  in  its  own 
lair,  and  work  his  way  back  to  Kansas.  He  obtained 
reportorial  work  on  The  J3ee,  but  in  some  way  fell  under 
the  influence  of  Catholic  friends.  He  went  to  Mobile 

xliv 


for  study,  and  on  the  3d  of  October  was  admitted  to  the 
Jesuit  College  at  Spring  Hill,  where  he  was  baptized  as 
"John  Richard."  Among  my  memoranda  I  find  the 
following  notes,  which  were  written  a  short  time  since 
by  one  who  was  with  Realf  at  the  college,  and  is  now,  or 
was  at  the  time  of  writing,  a  prominent  church  dignitary. 
The  note  that  accompanied  these  has  been  lost  and  I  do 
not  recall  the  name.  But  here  is  the  statement.  There 
are  some  errors  in  date  as,  for  example,  Realf  was  in 
England  in  July,  1859. 

"  About  the  first  of  July,  1859,  Richard  Realf  came  on 
a  visit  to  the  Jesuit  fathers.  He  was  at  the  college  for 
about  three  months,  was  instructed  and  baptized,  and,  as 
my  memory  serves  me,  made  his  profession  of  faith,  and 
was  received  into  the  church  by  Father  Gaureist,  then 
rector  of  the  college,  in  the  presence  of  the  students 
assembled  in  the  chapel  for  the  customary  daily  mass. 
He  left  for  New  Orleans  with  the  college  boys  on  the 
Morgan  steamship  early  in  October.  His  verses  were 
published  in  the  New  Orleans  Catholic  Standard,  then 
edited  by  a  Col.  Denis." 

When  James  Redpath  began,  with  my  aid  as  collabo 
rator,  "The  Public  Life  of  John  Brown,"  Realf  was 
believed  by  us  to  have  died  at  sea.  When  later,  as  the 
last  proofs  were  being  read,  Realf  was  arrested  at 
Tyler,  and  garbled  statements  were  wired  north,  Red- 
path  wrote  his  preface  thereon,  and  denounced  Richard 
Realf  as  a  "  traitor."  I  combated  that  view,  but  it  was 
of  no  use.  Years  after  (1877)  Redpath  wrote  to  a  lady 
in  Ohio  (at  Xenia,  I  believe),  replying  to  an  inquiry, 

xlv 


and  stating  that  his  attack  on  Realf  was  unjust.  He 
gave  the  explanation  I  have  just  made.  Redpath's 
language  in  the  book  was  as  follows: 

"The  latest  telegraphic  news  makes  one  correction 
necessary.  I  have  spoken  of  Richard  Realf  as  dead,  I 
thought  that  he  died  a  natural  death  on  the  ocean.  It 
appears  that  he  still  lives  in  the  body;  but  dead  to 
honor,  the  voice  of  conscience,  and  the  cries  of  the  poor. 
He  has  chosen  the  part  of  Judas  and  promises  to  play 
it  well." 

He  then  adds  to  Mrs.  Ann  Good's  inquiry  (the  corre 
spondence  and  name  were  all  published  in  an  Ohio  paper 
from  which  I  copy): 

"  You  ask  me  why  I  used  this  language.  Just  as  the 
preface  was  ready  for  the  press,  the  news  came  that  one 
of  John  Brown's  men  had  been  arrested  in  Alabama  or 
Texas — or  one  of  the  Gulf  States;  that  he  had  confessed 
his  connection  with  the  old  hero,  and  had  offered  to 
betray  all  the  secrets  of  the  movement  if  he  should  be 
brought  before  the  Congressional  Committee;  that  his 
proposal  had  been  accepted  and  that  he  was  then  on 
his  way  to  Washington  under  military  or  semi-military 
escort.  We  all  believed  that  Col.  Realf  had  become  a 
traitor.  This  belief  caused  me  to  write  that  assault  on 
him.  The  book  was  printed  before  he  gave  his  evi 
dence. 

"  Examined  by  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis  and  Mr.  Mason,  of 
Virginia,  while  it  is  true  that  he  told  his  story  at  great 
length,  it  is  equally  true  that  he  did  not  betray  any 
secrets  that  injured  any  one.  I  never  read  his  evidence 
in  full  until  after  I  wrote  the  preceding  paragraph.  I 
have  just  finished  it,  and  write,  therefore,  with  all  the 

xlvi 


facts  fresh  in  my  mind.  But  as  long  ago  as  1872  I 
publicly  retracted  and  apologized  for  the  unjust  charge 
that  I  had  made  against  Col.  Realf .  You  will  find  it  in 
the  edition  of  my  book,  published  by  Kinney  Brothers 
at  Sandusky,  Ohio.  .  .  . 

"  If  a  cloud  has  been  cast  across  the  path  of  Col.  Realf 
by  the  error  that  I  made  years  ago,  and  that  I  have  not 
been  fully  able  to  atone  for,  I  am  not  only  willing,  but 
anxious,  that  his  friends  should  make  any  use  that  they 
see  fit  of  this  explicit  retraction  and  apology."  .  .  . 

The  evidence  Realf  gave  had  no  political  importance. 
Its  value  is  purely  historical,  linking,  as  it  did,  the 
struggle  in  Kansas  with  the  attack  on  Harper's  Ferry, 
and  showing  how  both  came  to  be. 

When  Realf  reached  Cleveland,  Ohio,  after  the  U.  S. 
Senate  Committee  had  discharged  him,  he  had  some 
$600  in  his  possession,  received  as  witness  fees  and 
mileage.  In  that  city  he  met  Barclay  Coppoc  and 
Osborne  P.  Anderson,  two  of  those  who  escaped  from 
the  Virginia  melee.  He  immediately  divided  his  money 
by  one  half,  thus  enabling  both  to  reach  their  homes 
and  safety. 

In  quite  a  remarkable  communication  addressed  to  the 
editor  (Mrs.  H.  F.  M.  Brown)  of  a  Cleveland  weekly  of  the 
period,  after  analyzing  the  conflicting  conditions  which 
went,  in  his  judgment,  to  make  up  modern  reform  move 
ments,  he  writes: 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  been  somewhat  indecorously 
amused  at  the  various  speculations  of  people  in  regard 
to  my  former  connection  with  John  Brown.  One  news- 

xlvii 


paper  (the  Philadelphia  Ledger)  writes  me  down  in  a  long 
editorial  as  '  quick,  ardent,  enthusiastic,  able,  earnest, 
truthful,  sincere,  utterly  fearless  of  consequences,  and 
with  that  sort  of  boundless  faith  in  the  goodness  of 
others  which  inspires  confidence  and  makes  others  good 
to  him.'  The  Washington  States  and  Union  scolds  me 
like  a  virago  for  having,  it  claims,  made  the  government 
preserve  my  life  from  assassination,  and  transport  me 
from  Texas  to  the  North,  that  I  might  in  my  testimony 
exculpate  the  Republican  party  from  the  Democratic 
charge  of  complicity  with  John  Brown's  raid.  Redpath, 
the  author  of  the  old  hero's  biography,  conceived  an 
impression  that  I  had  sold  myself  to  the  South,  and  so 
attached  an  opprobrious  epithet  to  my  name.  A  Demo 
cratic  organ  in  this  city  is  mightily  exercised  because  I 
have  given  a  little  money  to  a  'traitor'  who  escaped 
from  Harper's  Ferry;  and  men  of  both  parties  are 
greatly  puzzled  to  know  how  it  is  that  I  can  condemn 
Brown's  insurrection,  and  yet  vindicate  his  personal 
character,  and  make  donations  to  those  who  were  en 
gaged  with  him  in  his  enterprise.  And  thus  I  answer 
them  all:  O!  Brother,  O!  Friend, — do  not  perplex  your 
self  with  perpetual  prying  into  that  which  will  not  avail 
you.  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  can  not  understand  me, 
without  unnecessarily  vexing  yourself  with  futile  effort? 
Perhaps  you  are  above  me,  perhaps  below,  or  it  may 
chance  that,  though  afar  off,  we  are  equal.  If  I  choose 
to  balk  your  criticism  and  baffle  your  analysis,  what  is 
that  to  you?  Look  you,  friend,  I  appeal  from  your 
customs,  your  rules,  your  measurements.  I  do  not 
stand  in  awe  of  you.  I  will  not  seek  to  conciliate  you. 
I  will  not  pay  you  hypocritical  attentions.  I  do  not  de 
sire  your  suffrage.  If  I  am  noble,  it  will  presently 
manifest  itself;  if  I  am  base,  I  shall  not  always  be  able 

xlviii 


to  conceal  it.  If  it  can  show  itself  in  no  other  way,  it 
will  ooze  out  at  my  finger  ends.  This  world  is  God's 
great  whispering  gallery.  Speak  we  never  so  low,  it 
roars  like  the  thunder  of  an  avalanche.  Act  we  never 
so  secretly,  it  blazes  along  the  dark  with  insufferable 
blinding  distinctness  like  lightning.  Hide  we  away  in 
places  never  so  silent  and  far  removed,  the  fiery  finger 
will  point  us  out,  the  inflexible  pursuing  voice  will  trans 
fix  us  with  the  discerning  words,  '  Thou  art  the  man.' 
It  is  most  egregious  folly  to  attempt  to  play  hide  and 
seek  with  our  Maker.  Wherefore,  if  I  can  neither  lift 
an  arm,  nor  raise  a  foot,  nor  utter  the  slightest  word 
under  my  breath,  without  having  it  thrill  upward  and 
downward  to  the  shining  pillars  of  heaven  and  the 
ghastly  pits  of  hell — if  I  am  thus  encompassed  with  un 
speakable  responsibilities  and  thus  surrounded  with 
unutterable  grandeurs  which  flash  in  upon  me  through 
all  the  avenues  of  my  being — if  I  have  entered  into  a 
spiritual  contract  with  God,  to  the  performance  of  which 
I  am  pledged  by  all  sweetness  of  peace  and  all  sublimity 
of  repose,  and  the  failure  of  my  duty  wherein  will  in 
volve  me  in  consequences  more  perilous  than  hell — what 
is  it  to  me  if  you  can  not  gauge  me  with  your  personal 
standards?  Why  will  you  leave  your  politics,  your 
merchandise,  your  money-making,  only  that  you  may 
grow  vexed  and  petulant?  If  you  are  true,  I  am  glad 
of  it,  for  it  is  so  much  the  better  for  you.  But  go  your 
way,  and  leave  me  to  go  mine.  If  I  wrong  you,  I  am  a 
fool;  if  you  injure  me,  you  are  not  the  less  so,  for  you 
thereby  constitute  yourself  my  abject  debtor,  and 
possess  me  with  a  lien  upon  your  soul.  Let  us,  there 
fore,  be  careful  how  we  judge  each  other " 

From  the  early  part  of  February  to  the  last  of  August, 
1860,  Realf  is  known  to  have  been  in  Ohio.     After  leav- 

xlix 


ing  Cleveland,  he  went  to  Columbus,  making  the  ac 
quaintance  there,  among  others,  of  William  D.  Howells 
and  John  J.  Piatt,  who  were  both  engaged  on  the  lead 
ing  Republican  paper — the  State  Journal.  He  did  some 
work  for  the  paper  while  in  the  city.  But  he  did  not 
succeed  in  obtaining  remunerative  employment,  and 
with  the  remains  of  the  money  paid  him  as  witness  fees 
and  mileage,  he  started  probably  for  Cincinnati,  but, 
feeling  worn  with  the  mental  strain  he  had  undergone, 
went  to  the  Shaker  settlement,  at  Union  Village,  War 
ren  Co.,  Ohio,  to  obtain  rest  and  recuperation.  A  lady 
who  afterward  resided  in  Xenia,  and  nursed  him 
through  a  severe  sickness,  writes  of  his  stay  in  the 
village  as  follows: 

"  He  came  to  a  village  in  Warren  County,  Ohio,  in 
which  I  was  living  at  the  time.  He  wanted  a  comfort 
able  place  to  rest,  as  he  said  he  had  just  come  out  of  the 
John  Brown  trouble  with  his  life.  So  we  took  him  into 
our  house.  In  a  few  weeks  he  was  taken  very  ill,  and 
it  fell  to  my  lot  to  take  care  of  him,  which  I  gladly  did, 
as  he  was  so  young  and  had  not  a  relative  in  this  country. 
He  continued  very  ill  for  many  weeks,  and  it  was  three 
months  before  he  fully  recovered.  When  convalescing, 
he  took  great  pride  in  giving  me  a  history  of  his  life, 
which  was,  of  course,  very  interesting  to  me.  .  .  . 
Then  he  was  engaged  by  the  Believers  to  lecture  or 
preach  to  them  once  a  week  for  six  months.  It  took 
him  one  week  to  prepare  himself  for  the  first  of  the 
course.  The  people  advertised  that  such  lectures  would 
be  delivered  free  to  the  public,  and  the  hall  was  well 
filled.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  fame  of  his 

1 


eloquence  extended  over  the  region.  The  press  lauded 
him  in  high  tones,  and  he  continued  to  draw  such  crowds 
that  hundreds  could  not  gain  admittance  to  the  hall. 
As  he  proceeded  with  his  course  he  grew  more  and  more 
eloquent,  until  the  religious  body  he  spoke  for  declared 
he  was  inspired  by  the  Holy  Spirit.  ...  I  never 
missed  one  lecture  during  the  six  months.  It  was  gen 
erally  held  as  a  delight  to  hear  him,  and,  indeed,  his 
whole  chain  of  thought  was  full  of  purity,  logic,  pathos 
and  eloquence."  .  . 

The  secretary  of  the  Believers  community  at  Union 
Village,  whose  adherents  are  generally  called  Shakers, 
in  reply  to  a  communication  from  me,  writes  briefly: 

"Richard  Realf  came  to  Union  Village  in  March,  1860. 
He  united  and  became  a  member  of  the  society  on  the 
22d  day  of  April  following.  We  have  no  record  of  the 
precise  time  he  left  the  community,  but  we  think  he 
tarried  with  us  about  five  months.  A  portion  of  the 
time  he  sustained  the  position  of  a  public  speaker, 
evincing  much  ability  and  talent,  and  by  his  oratory  he 
attracted  large  audiences.  His  conduct  while  at  Union 
was  altogether  unexceptionable." 

When  he  left  the  community  there  was  something  like 
a  religious  revival  in  the  air.  The  subjects  of  his  dis 
courses  were  such  as  :  "The  Hollowness  of  the  World 
Life,"  "The  Nobility  of  Sacrifice,"  "Purity  in  Life,"  and 
similar  themes.  The  local  papers  referred  to  them  as 
masterpieces  of  ethical  philosophy  and  religious  zeal. 
He  grew  restless,  however;  the  beginnings  of  rebellion 
were  in  the  winds;  his  own  active  nature  craved  broader 
life,  and  he  was  called  to  the  lecture-field  by  the  fame 

•       li 


of  his  "  Shaker  "  speeches.  Two  lectures  were  delivered 
at  Dayton,  with  great  success  and  considerable  pecuni 
ary  reward.  Other  lectures  were  delivered  by  him  in 
Ohio  cities  and  towns  on  poetry  and  anti-slavery  topics. 
It  was  at  this  period  that  his  lecturing  took  bin1  to 
Mac-a-Cheek,  the  home  of  Donn  Piatt,  then  just  returned 
from  a  not  over-creditable  diplomatic  career  in  Paris. 
Realf  was  not  in  poverty  at  the  time,  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  must  have  been  quite  forehanded.  I  should  not 
have  referred  to  this  meeting  but  for  the  fact  that,  sev 
eral  years  after  my  friend's  death,  Donn  Piatt  gathered 
a  handful  of  mire  and  flung  it  needlessly  at  his  memory, 
by  publication  in  a  Chicago  literary  weekly  of  a  story 
that  the  poet,  a  vagabond  in  appearance,  shoeless  and 
ragged,  came  to  his  residence  with  a  note  from  some  one 
known  to  him.  Piatt  stated  that  he  entertained  the  wan 
dering  singer,  loaned  him  $600,  and  sent  him  on  his  way 
rejoicing,  and  had  never  heard  directly  from  him  since. 
There  are  several  bits  of  internal  evidence  that  tend  to  a 
natural  disproval  of  this  queer  story.  In  the  first  place, 
no  one  who  knew  Donn  Piatt,  as  I  did  for  several  years 
at  a  later  period,  would  credit  him  with  a  specially  gener 
ous  disposition,  or  pick  him  out  as  a  man  likely  to  loan 
$600  to  a  shoeless,  ragged  man,  even  if  he  were  a  gifted 
poet  and  orator.  Secondly,  Piatt  himself  was  well  known 
to  be  in  pecuniary  difficulties  at  that  time.  And  thirdly, 
as  already  shown,  Richard  Realf  was  by  no  means  an 
impecunious  wanderer  at  the  date  Piatt  gave — August, 
1860.  Realf's  lectures  at  Dayton,  Ohio,  were  delivered 

Hi 


that  month,  and  they  netted  him  over  $100  each.  Be 
sides  he  had  other  funds,  including  the  amount  received 
from  the  Believers.  He  lectured  in  Mac-a-Cheek 
also  at  that  date,  and  would  hardly  have  done  so  had 
he  been  in  the  state  of  vagabondage  the  romancing 
journalist  afterward  described.  I  find  among  Realf's 
papers  of  that  period,  and  subsequently,  mention  several 
times  of  his  having  lent  Donn  Piatt  $600,  which  was 
never  returned.  He  so  informed  Captain  Rowland,  with 
whom  he  enlisted,  among  others.  Piatt  was  much  abler 
at  borrowing  than  was  Realf ,  an  '  the  possibilities  are 
all  in  favor  of  the  latter. 

After  the  Mac-a-cheek  incident,  however,  from  about 
September,  1860,  until  about  July,  1862,  Realf  dis 
appeared  from  the  public  view.  With  all  the  efforts 
I  have  made  it  has  been  impossible  to  trace,  him  for  a 
single  day  during  the  twenty  months  intervening.  He 
himself  has  said  that  a  visit  to  England  occurred;  but 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Whapham,  declares  that  none  of  his 
family  or  their  acquaintances  know  of  such  a  visit. 
Only  one  poem  of  that  period  has  reached  me,  and  it  is 
the  one  entitled  "  Apocalypse,"  and  relates  to  the  killing 
of  Private  Ladd  of  the  Sixth  Massachusetts  in  the 
streets  of  Baltimore,  April  igth,  1861.  Perhaps  the 
Mac-a-cheek  incident,  whether  it  was  borrowing  or 
lending,  may  have  been  the  immediate  cause  of  this 
disappearance.  At  any  rate,  Realf's  personality  passed 
into  the  void,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn.  The 
next  appearance  is  at  the  beginning  of  his  military  life 

liii 


in  Chicago.  Realf  s  enlistment  is  thus  described  by  a 
former  recruiting  officer,  Captain  Charles  Rowland, 
in  a  letter  dated  December  10,  1878: 

"  In  the  summer  of  1862  I  was  seated  in  my  recruiting 
office,  in  Chicago,  when  one  morning  there  walked  in  a 
bright,  trim-built,  intelligent-looking  little  gentleman, 
and,  saluting  me  with  a  pleasant  '  good  morning,' 
asked,  '  You  are  raising  recruits  for  the  army,  I  sup 
pose?'  Answering  in  the  affirmative,  I  asked  him  to 
take  a  seat.  Upon  doing  so  he  commenced  a  conversa 
tion  on  general  topics,  the  war,  slavery,  etc.,  which 
lasted  probably  half  an  hour.  Ere  he  departed  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  any  notion  of  entering  my  company,  and 
said,  if  so,  it  would  afford  me  exceeding  pleasure  to 
swear  him  in.  He  stated  that  not  at  that  time  could  he 
answer  my  question,  but  would  call  again  in  a  day  or 
two.  On  the  ensuing  day  he  came  again,  and  after 
another  chat  of,  perhaps,  an  hour,  he  said: 

"  '  Captain,  I  am  really  much  pleased  with  you,  and  am 
ready  to  be  sworn  in  as  a  soldier.' 

"  Accordingly  I  administered  the  necessary  oath.  Of 
course,  he  had  told  me  his  name — a  native  of  England. 
His  age  or  vocation  I  do  not  remember.  [He  was  then 
in  his  2Qth  year.]  .  .  .  ." 

Captain  Rowland  mentions  the  disposal  of  some  books 
and  clothing,  for  which  Realf  would  have  no  use  as  a 
soldier.  The  captain  took  his  recruit  to  board  with 
him,  as  they  would  be  in  the  city  for  some  weeks.  As 
always,  Realf's  charming  personality  held  those  with 
whom  he  met.  Captain  Rowland  writes:  "  I  appeared  to 
lift  him  out  of  sadness  at  times,  for  he  often  ran  from 

liv 


summer  heat  to  zero  in  a  few  minutes."  His  poetic  genius 
soon  showed  itself  to  his  interested  friend,  and  won,  he 
writes,  "my  sympathy,  and  at  last,  I  might  say,  my 
affection."  He  spoke  of  his  early  life  in  Brighton  and 
Kansas,  and  soon  confided  to  the  captain  his  connection 
with  John  Brown,  his  life  in  Texas,  arrest  and  removal 
to  Washington,  etc.  Captain  Rowland  writes: 

"  I  really  fancy  that  Realf  believed  in  the  feasibility  of 
the  overthrow  of  slave  government  by  the  nucleus  of 
men  that  John  Brown  fought  with  at  Harper's  Ferry. 
His  imagination  was,  I  was  about  to  say,  generally  the 
master  of  his  reason.  His  wish  to  gain  an  object  in 
duced  him  to  believe  it  could  readily  be  achieved;  not 
studying  about  the  necessary  means  to  gain  an  end,  he 
was  ever  liable  to  disappointment.  But  he  possessed  a 
gentle,  child-like,  confiding  nature.  There  was  a  great 
deal  of  womanly  sensibility  mingled  in  his  character. 
He  was  governed  by  quick  impulses  and  too  frequently 
was  he  deceived." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  constant  companions  for 
several  weeks,  and  the  captain  testifies  that  intimacy 
increased  confidence  on  his  part.  Realf  desired,  how 
ever,  to  go  to  camp,  and  transportation  was  furnished 
him  to  Camp  Butler,  Springfield,  111.  Correspondence 
was  maintained  between  the  two  friends.  Realf  had  an 
opportunity  of  promotion  at  an  early  day,  and  Captain 
Rowland  released  him  to  enable  his  securing  a  warrant 
position  in  the  88th  Illinois.  He  was  made  sergeant- 
major  of  the  regiment,  and  thus  placed  in  line  for  the 
adjutant's  commission,  which  came  a  year  later.  The 

Iv 


regiment  was  soon  ordered  south,  and  at  once  saw 
active  service  in  the  famous  Perryville  and  Stone  River 
campaigns. 

That  Realf's  military  career  was  one  of  honor,  cour 
age,  ability,  and  personal  uprightness,  can  not  be  ques 
tioned.  With  his  regiment,  the  88th  Illinois  Volunteer 
Infantry,  he  served  in  the  Fourth  Army  Corps  through 
out  the  war,  under  brigade  and  division  commanders 
Stanley,  Schofield,  Sill,  Lytle,  Wood,  and  Sheridan,  with 
Generals  Rosecrans,  Thomas,  Grant,  and  Sherman,  par 
ticipating  in  all  the  grand  series  of  military  operations, 
from  the  march  to  and  battles  of  Perryville  and  Mur- 
freesboro  or  Stone  River,  the  capture  of  Nashville,  the 
massive  campaign  of  1863,  which  resulted  in  the  occu 
pation  of  Chattanooga,  the  great  conflict  on  the  Chica- 
mauga  field,  the  superb  victory  at  Lookout  Mountain 
and  Mission  Ridge,  the  severe  winter  campaign  under 
Hooker  for  the  relief  of  Knoxville,  all  the  marching  and 
fighting  southward  to  Kingston,  Georgia,  preparatory  to 
the  great  Atlanta  campaign  under  Sherman,  with 
the  arduous  work  and  fighting  therein,  until  the 
capture  of  Atlanta  brought  him  back  to  Chatta 
nooga,  temporarily  invalided  with  bilious  fever.  He 
was  actively  employed  thereafter  at  Chattanooga  and 
Nashville,  participating  in  the  final  close  at  the 
battle  of  Franklin,  under  Schofield,  Stanley,  and  Wood, 
of  the  Confederate  attack  under  Hood  upon  General 
George  H.  Thomas  and  his  forces  in  the  central 
south;  at  Nashville,  Tenn.,  through  the  larger  part  of 

Ivi 


1864  and  1865,  until  his  departure  north  as  a  citizen, 
June  2ist.  In  the  latter  year  he  served  upon  the  staff 
of  Brigadier-General  John  F.  Miller,  who  afterward 
befriended  him  so  warmly  in  California,  and  acted,  by 
the  poet's  dying  request,  as  his  executor. 

Occasionally,  some  one  has  written  of  the  poet  as 
a  "soldier  of  fortune,"  or  a  "military  adventurer." 
These  caviling  designations  are  absolutely  inaccurate. 
Realf  was  a  conscientious  and  self-convinced  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  and  therefore,  when  defense  of  the 
assailed  Union  led  in  his  view  directly  toward  the  free 
dom  from  chattel  slavery  which  he  held  to  be  essential 
to  its  safety,  he  was  an  honest  and  devoted  soldier  of 
its  flag  and  unity.  He  was  personally  brave  unto  rash 
ness,  and  won  the  high  honor,  for  a  subaltern,  of 
being  twice  named  in  general  corps  and  division  orders 
for  personal  gallantry,  once  at  Mission  Ridge,  where 
he  carried  the  regimental  colors  forward  under  aheavy 
fire,  the  color-bearer  having  been  shot  down,  thus  rally 
ing  the  line  for  a  successful  advance  against  rifle  pits 
in  front  ;  and  again  at  Franklin,  where  the  Eighty- 
eighth  Illinois  bore  the  brunt  of  a  great  resistance.  In 
Eddy's  "Patriotism  of  Illinois"  (page  210)  the  author 
says  that  the  Eighty-eighth  "bore  a  splendid  part 
in  the  battles  about  Nashville,  fighting  Forest  at 
Spring  Hill,  and  on  the  thirtieth  of  October,  1864, 
reaching  Franklin,  where  the  Illinois  regiment  led 
in  a  remarkable  charge."  Col.  Smith,  Major  Holden, 
and  Adjutant  Realf,  one  of  the  bravest  of  the  brave 


(writes  Mr.  Eddy),  "were  on  horseback,  not  hav 
ing  had  time  to  dismount,  and  so  entirely  exposed  to 
the  enemy's  fire."  He  continues:  "it  was  a  desperate 
hand  to  hand  fight,  and  both  Generals  Stanley  and 
Wood,  corps  and  division  commanders,  publicly  and  in 
person  thanked  the  regiment  and  its  field  and  staff  officers 
by  name,  for  the  repulse  of  the  rebel  column,  the  safety 
of  the  Union  army,  and  the  victory  of  the  day"  (vol.  2, 
pp.  345-7).  General  Alexander  McCook,  corps  command 
er,  speaks  of  the  Eighty-eighth  as  follows:  "This  fire, 
not  in  any  way  diminishing,  I  ordered  the  colors  forward 
on  the  works,  which  a  moment  afterward  were  carried,, 
and  the  stars  and  stripes  waved  triumphantly  on  Mis 
sion  Ridge."  The  regimental  adjutant  was  slain  in  this 
charge,  and  the  poet  sergeant-major  won  the  vacant  bar 
by  carrying  forward  the  flag. 

In  one  of  the  many  war  letters  placed  at  my  disposal, 
Realf  writes  to  a  lady  correspondent  who  wondered  at 
him,  an  Englishman,  being  in  the  American  army:  "I 
hold  that  he  alone  is  an  American  who  is  true  to  the 
idea  of  the  American  Republic.  There  are  many  alien 
natures  born  on  these  shores;  many  American  hearts 
that  drew  breath  beyond  the  seas.  And  I  think  that 
by  and  by  among  the  many  lessons  we  shall  have 
to  learn  will  be  that  our  estimates  of  the  basis  of  con 
sanguinity,  as  well  as  nationality,  are  a  good  deal 
wide  of  the  mark."  In  another  letter  he  wrote  that, 
born  in  the  faith  of  Cromwell,  and  nurtured  on  the 
genius  of  John  Milton,  how  could  he  be  other  than  a 

Iviii 


republican,  and  therefore  a  lover  and  defender  of  the 
Union  assailed  by  slavery  and  secession. 

All  the  Kansas  comrades  of  the  poet  entered  the 
Union  army,  or  in  a  few  cases,  being  physically  unable 
so  to  do,  served  in  the  recruiting  or  other  useful  ser 
vice.  Several  of  them,  like  Realf,  and  this  writer,  were 
of  English  or  European  birth,  but  none  the  less  were 
they  most  devoted  Americans.  And  none  of  them  are 
entitled  to  the  flippant  designation  of  "  soldiers  of  for 
tune."  The  war  letters  of  Richard  Realf,  as  well  as 
the  annals  of  his  modest  but  efficient  service,  prove 
how  alive  was  his  patriotism.  Apart  from  their  exqui 
site  literary  quality,  these  letters  would  prove  in  print 
an  inspiration  to  citizenship.  The  poet's  recognition  of 
President  Lincoln's  policy  and  statesmanship,  with  his 
trenchant  perception  of  the  failure  of  others,  as  well  as 
his  scorn  of  those  who  plotted  and  hindered  at  home, 
are  among  the  more  notable  expressions  of  soldier  feel 
ing.  Elsewhere  I  have  referred  to  the  literary  value  of 
these  letters,  but  I  am  by  no  means  sure  their  civic  sig 
nificance  and  importance  are  not  much  greater.  One  of 
their  delightful  features  is  constant  tribute  to  the  char 
acter  of  his  soldier  comrades.  In  front  of  Atlanta,  on 
the  eighth  of  September,  1864,  he  wrote  to  his  Michigan 
correspondent,  Miss  Jordan: 

"Since  I  last  wrote,  what  a  grand  consummation  has 
been  put  to  this  Atlanta  campaign!  What  an  arduous 
time  we  had,  filled  with  quick  marches,  rapid  maneu 
vers,  swift  feints,  and  swifter  strokes  of  purposes;  and 

lix 


how  completely,  intellectually  considered,  the  inferiors 
of  Sherman,  were  Johnston  and  Hood.  Balked  and 
baffled,  blinded  and  misled,  Hood  was  ever  as  an  auto 
maton  in  our  great  leader's  hands.  How  glad  I  am  it 
is  at  last  over,  and  that  our  poor,  tired  boys  will  have 
an  opportunity  for  rest  and  repose  before  the  tug  of 
war  again  comes.  How  brave  they  have  been — how  full 
of  uncomplaining  heroism  and  fortitude,  none  but  they 
who  have  marched,  fought,  and  suffered  with  them,  can 
tell.  We  are  apt  to  look  back  regretfully  upon  the  olden 
times  of  chivalry,  as  though  with  the  departure  of  those 
days  the  knightly  spirit  went  out;  but  I  can  bear  testi 
mony  to  the  fact  that  under  the  rough  exterior  of  our 
Union  braves  there  beat  as  loyal  and  kingly  hearts  as 
ever  throbbed  in  Abelard  or  other  knight,  sans  peur  et 
sans  reproche" 

In  an  earlier  letter  to  the  same  correspondent,  he 
writes  of  his  comrades: 

"  That  we  degenerate  in  politeness  of  speech  and  man 
ner,  that  we  grow  somewhat  abrupt  and  rude,  is  quite 
true;  indeed,  I  do  not  see  how  this  could  well  be  other 
wise,  but  these  matters  are  by  no  means  essentials,  and 
do  not  concern  the  purity  of  the  soul.  Standing  on 
these  battle-heights,  front  to  front  with  the  dark  mys 
teries  of  life  and  death,  it  is  no  marvel  that  we  account 
of  little  value  the  slight  veneering  of  conventional  pro 
prieties.  But  I  repeat  my  heart's  conviction  when  I  say 
that,  in  all  the  attributes  which  form  the  basis  of  true 
manhood,  courage,  not  of  the  flesh  but  of  the  soul — en 
durance,  patience,  fealty  to  conception  of  truth,  and 
sometimes  pity  and  tenderness  softer  than  a  woman's — 
the  men  in  the  armies  of  the  Union  will  compare  favor 
ably  with  any  selection  of  people  that  can  be  made." 

Ix 


The  temptation  is  great  to  continue  and  amplify  these 
extracts,  but  sufficient  have  been  given  to  illustrate  the 
spirit  in  which  Richard  Realf  performed  his  duty  as  an 
armed  American  citizen.  It  was  this  devotion  and 
courage  that  won  for  him  the  unanimous  encomiums  of 
his  associates  and  superiors. 

The  most  striking  recognition  is  given  in  a  letter  to 
me.  Under  date  of  San  Francisco,  March  26,  1879, 
Gen.  Miller  writes  of  Realf's  services  on  his  staff  at 
Nashville,  of  which  city  he  was  military  commander, 
in  part,  as  follows: 

"Realf  was  aid  on  my  staff  at  Nashville  several 
months.  He  was  very  intelligent  in  the  discharge  of 
his  duty,  very  punctual,  and  faithful,  always  on  duty, 
earnest,  industrious,  sober,  and  discreet.  I  never  heard 
a  word  of  complaint  concerning  him  in  any  respect 
while  he  served  with  me,  and  I  certainly  regarded  him 
as  an  officer  of  rare  attainments,  faithful,  efficient,  and 
intelligent  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty.  His  private 
character  during  that  time,  so  far  as  I  knew,  was  above 
reproach.  My  command  at  Nashville  was  that  known 
as  military  commander  of  a  city,  and  it  involved  what 
might  be  termed  civic  military  rule.  The  duties  were 
very  arduous,  thousands  of  people  came  to  my  head 
quarters  upon  every  conceivable  errand  and  for  almost 
every  purpose,  and  these  I  had  to  deal  with  as  well  as 
to  attend  to  my  military  duties  as  commander  of  troops. 
The  civil  authorities  looked  to  the  military  for  aid  and 
support,  and  hence  my  duties  brought  me  in  contact 
with  all  officers  of  the  civil  government,  I  had  a  large 
staff,  and  among  the  officers  was  Realf,  whose  duty  was 
to  receive  the  visitors  to  headquarters  in  an  anteroom, 

Ixi 


ascertain  their  names  and  the  nature  of  their  business 
with  the  commander,  give  assistance  to  them  in  formu 
lating  requests,  and  admit  them  to  the  commander  in 
such  order  and  in  such  numbers  as  was  considered 
proper;  to  give  information  to  people  who  came  to  make 
inquiries  of  various  sorts,  in  such  cases  as  he  was  able 
to  furnish  the  requisite  information,  etc.,  etc.  These 
duties  he  discharged  with  such  courtesy,  intelligence, 
and  tact,  as  to  render  valuable  service  not  only  to  the 
commander  but  to  the  people,  and  I  found  it  expedient 
to  retain  him  in  the  place  until  he  was  mustered  out  of 
service.  I  knew  of  his  literary  ability  before,  but  he 
made  it  more  manifest  while  he  was  with  me.  He  wrote 
several  poems  of  merit  during  that  time,  one  of  which 
in  particular  I  remember,  for  he  read  it  to  me  one  morn 
ing  just  after  I  came  in.  It  was  entitled  the  '  Joy 
Gun.'  Mrs.  Miller  had  seen  in  a  newspaper  the  account 
of  a  negro  who  appeared  at  army  headquarters  in  Fort 
Monroe,  I  believe,  and  asked  the  general  in  command 
to  fire  a  joy  gun,  so  that  the  company  of  poor,  starved 
people  whom  this  man  had  brought  out  of  bondage,  to 
within  a  mile  or  two  of  the  fort,  might  hear  the  gun  and 
know  that  they  were  near  friends.  She  cut  this  out  of 
the  paper  and  giving  it  to  me  said,  '  This  is  a  fine  sub 
ject  for  a  poem;  give  it  to  Realf  and  tell  him  to  write.' 
I  did  so,  and  he  read  the  poem  to  me  as  above  stated. 
He  was  very  proud  of  it,  and  gave  me  a  copy  to  present 
to  Mrs.  Miller. 

"  Realf  was  a  favorite  among  the  officers  at  Nashville, 
and  was  very  popular  with  the  people,  for  he  treated  all 
visitors  with  such  urbanity  and  polite  attention  as  to 
win  their  good  opinion.  He  was  especially  kind  to  the 
poor  people  who  came,  manifested  interest  in  their  suf 
ferings,  listened  to  their  tales  of  sorrow,  and  often  came 


Ixii 


in  and  personally  stated  their  cases,  and  made  their 
appeals  as  a  friend  to  them  with  almost  poetic  eloquence. 
The  rich  and  powerful  who  came  found  him  respectful 
and  polite,  but  not  over  sympathetic.  Realf  was  the 
friend  of  the  lowly,  the  ignorant  and  poor,  and  often 
their  advocate.  I  was  greatly  pleased  with  Realf  as  an 
aide-de-camp,  and  believed  him  a  sincere,  earnest,  pa 
triotic  man.  He  was  never  with  me  in  battle." 

With  his  mustering  out  of  the  Union  army,  there  fol 
low  incidents  and  life  chapters  not  so  attractive,  and  the 
following  of  which  is  a  painful  duty  indeed  to  this 
writer. 

The  marriages  of  Richard  Realf  have  been  much  dis 
cussed.  I  use  the  plural,  though  legally  there  was  but 
one  marriage.  The  second  ceremony  was  bigamous  in 
character,  and  Realf  had  no  knowledge  whatever  of  his 
being  free  from  the  wholesome  and  honorable  relation 
that  he  first  entered  upon.  The  third  relationship  entered 
upon  after  he  had  obtained  from  one  State  court  a  divorce 
from  the  woman  he  contracted  marriage  with  at  Roches 
ter,  New  York,  was,  if  any  validity  could  attach,  of  the 
common-law  order.  His  partner  in  this  third  union  was 
the  mother  of  children  by  him,  and  everywhere  in  his 
latter  years  he  spoke  of  her  as  "  my  wife."  His  efforts, 
letters,  and  speech  were  burdened  by  his  intense  desire  to 
take  care  of  her  and  the  children.  These  were  triplets, 
all  girls,  and  fortunately  these  have  been  adopted  and 
well  provided  for.  The  son  has  grown  to  manhood  and 
is  spoken  of  as  in  every  way  worthy  and  upright.  My 

Ixiii 


part  just  here  is  to  tell  the  facts  as  to  the  real  and  first 
marriage. 

Sophia  Emery  Graves  was  a  native  of  Maine,  born,  I 
believe,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bangor.  I  have  been 
informed,  whether  correctly  or  not  I  do  not  know,  that 
there  was  some  relationship  through  marriage  with 
Hannibal  Hamlin,  once  Senator  and  Vice-President  of 
the  United  States.  Her  people  were,  however,  fairly 
well-to-do  Maine  folks,  and  the  young  woman  herself 
became  a  teacher  and  went  west  to  a  sister  in  Indiana, 
— Mrs.  Furniss,  of  Furnissville,  Porter  County,  about 
40  miles  east-by-south  of  Chicago.  My  knowledge  of 
this  marriage  came  first  from  the  fact  that  at  Realf's 
funeral,  while  the  Grand  Army  escort  was  passing  from 
Oakland,  across  the  bay  to  San  Francisco,  a  strange 
lady,  looking  upon  the  face  of  the  dead,  started  in  sur 
prise  and  remarked  to  her  escort,  "  Why,  that's  Captain 
Realf,  whom  I  saw  married."  She  said  no  more,  and 
got  out  of  the  way,  evidently  desirous  of  avoiding  public 
talk.  Shortly  afterward  an  article  appeared  in  an  Ohio 
paper  denouncing  the  dead  man  as  having  been  a  biga 
mist.  I  could  not  trace  this  to  any  positive  source, 
though  strongly  desirous  of  so  doing,  in  order  to  learn 
the  actual  status  of  Catherine  "  Realf,"  nh  Casidy,  the 
Pittsburg  woman  whose  pursuit  of  Realf  to  California 
was  the  incentive  to  his  suicide.  The  Reverend  Alex 
ander  Clark,  D.D.,  then  Editor  of  The  Protestant  Meth 
odist  Monthly,  now  deceased,  sent  me  a  letter  signed 
"  S.  Emery."  The  handwriting  was  fine  and  original, 

Ixiv 


and  though  it  looked  feminine,  the  contents  implied  that 
the  writer  was  a  man.  If  so,  it  must  have  been  an  army 
comrade  of  Realf's.  I  wrote  to  the  address  given  and 
received  a  reply  at  once,  the  contents  of  which  was 
somewhat  startling.  The  writer  stated  her  sex  and 
claimed  to  be  the  lawful  wife  of  my  friend. 

"  I  submit,"  she  wrote  from  Springfield,  Mass.,  under 
date  of  March  8,  1879,  "a  true  statement  of  my  relations 
to  him  reluctantly,  for  I  would  not  add  another  dark 
chapter  to  his  already  too  much  blurred  life.  /  was 
his  wife.  .  .  .  The  88th  Illinois — the  regiment  in 
which  R.  served — was  formed  in  Chicago.  The  colonel 
(Chadbourne  of  Maine,  formerly)  of  this  regiment  was 
a  connection  of  mine,  and  many  of  the  privates  were 
young  men  or  boys,  who  had  been  my  pupils  or  neigh 
bors  in  that  small  Western  town  where  I  then  lived,  and 
it  was  through  my  interest  in  the  welfare  of  these  sol 
diers  that  I  became  intimate  with  Realf.  We  were  mar 
ried  in  June,  1865.  ,  .  .  R.  remained  with  me  until 
August  or  September,  when,  having  received  a  commis 
sion  in  a  colored  regiment  stationed  'south,'  he  pro 
ceeded  thither,  leaving  me  at  the  house  of  my  brother- 
in-law,  E.  L.  Furniss,  in  northern  Indiana.  It  was 
intended  that  I  should  rejoin  him  speedily,  but  it  became 
evident  that  the  troops  would  soon  be  mustered  out.  I 
awaited  his  coming  north  again.  His  letters  were  fre 
quent  and  full  of  plans  for  our  future,  of  his  literary 
ventures,  and  of  his  perils  while  investigating  cases  of 
outrages  against  the  negroes.  I  received  a  letter  dated 
Feb.  24,  1866,  stating  that  the  troops  were  to  be  imme 
diately  disbanded,  and  that  he  should  be  on  his  way 
home  before  I  could  have  time  to  answer.  That  was 
the  last  letter  I  ever  received  from  him,  and  I  never 

Ixv 


saw  him  again.  Inquiries  were  made,  but  the  officers 
who  were  with  him  during  the  winter  only  know  that 
they  left  him  at  Vicksburg  ready,  as  he  told  them,  to 
come  north  or  '  home.'  " 

Mrs.  S.  E.  Graves-Realf  states  that  the  next  time  she 
heard  of  Realf  was  in  the  fall  of  the  same  year  when 
Joel  Benton  published  in  The  Independent  a  notable  letter 
of  the  wanderer  written  to  Humphrey  Noyes,  of  the 
Oneida  Community.  She  continues,  in  the  letter  I  am 
quoting  from: 

"  After  reading  these  letters  I  determined  that,  if  do 
mestic  ties  were  burdensome  to  him,  he  should  never  be 
annoyed  or  troubled  by  me.  He  might  seek  me  if  he 
chose,  but  I  should  never  go  to  him.  I  knew  that  I  had 
made  a  marriage  that  could  only  bring  misery  in  some 
form  or  other,  and  I  accepted  the  penalty  without  a 
murmur.  After  recovering  from  a  serious  illness  that 
followed  his  desertion,  I  returned  to  my  relatives  in 
Maine  and  have  lived  a  quiet,  retired  life  with  them 
ever  since.  Not  many  of  my  relatives  or  friends,  so 
reticent  have  I  been  in  regard  to  my  marriage  and  de 
sertion,  knew  that  the  Richard  Realf  of  John  Brown 
notoriety  was  in  any  way  connected  with  my  husband. 
When  his  poems  or  items  in  regard  to  him  met  my  eyes 
I  received  a  shock  as  if  some  long-lost  friend  had  been 
suddenly  recalled  to  mind,  but  when  I  saw  the  account 
of  his  untimely  end  I  found  I  could  still  feel  sorrow 
for  the  woes  he  had  heaped  upon  himself  by  his  reck 
less  life,  and  for  many  weeks  newspapers  became  a  tor 
ture  to  me.  I  can  not  believe  that  he  was  as  heedless 
of  all  moral  or  social  laws  as  the  reports,  if  true,  prove 
him." 

Ixvi 


She  then  declares  that,  as  the  evidence  of  his  bigam 
ous  marriage  and  other  connections  came  to  her,  she  re- 
adopted  her  mother's  name  of  Emery  and  wrote  to  her 
friends  to  thus  address  her.  Referring  to  the  son  that 
Realf  left  behind  as  a  fruit  of  his  last  relationship,  Mrs. 
Realf  wrote:  "  I  am  interested  in  that  child — where  is 
he,  and  whom  does  he  call  mother?"  Later  she  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  adopt  the  boy,  but,  after  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Whapham,  concluded  to  withdraw  entirely  from  all 
Realf  connections — even  ceasing  any  correspondence. 
In  closing  this  first  letter,  the  great-hearted  woman 
writes  anent  a  proposed  biography  that  the  writer 
should 

"Touch  lightly  upon  his  marital  enormities — if  men 
tioned  at  all — for  the  sake  of  the  child  and  of  his  aged 
parents.  Had  R.  realized  '  Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or 
good  or  ill,'  he  would  have  left  a  brighter  record  be 
hind  him.  ...  I  would  not  deal  harshly  with  his 
memory,  for  'God  and  the  angels  know'  alone  what 
were  his  temptations,  struggles,  and  atonements  during 
his  ill-starred  life." 

The  greater  part  of  his  letters  to  Furnissville  were 
destroyed  with  other  papers  on  Mrs.  Realf's  recovery 
from  the  brain  fever  which  marked  her  sweet  young 
face  and  whitened  to  silver  her  sunny  brown  hair.  I 
saw  her  but  once,  and  she  impressed  me  as  both  fine 
and  fragile  in  body  and  mind.  She  died  some  three 
years  ago.  It  was  the  desire  to  prevent  renewal  of  pain 
to  this  lady  as  well  as  not  to  burden  with  reminiscent 

Ixvii 


sorrows  and  hindersome  memories  another,  who  was 
bravely  and  faithfully  struggling  out  of  false  conditions 
— I  refer  to  the  mother  of  the  Poet's  children — that  in 
great  part  is  due  the  delay  of  years  in  fulfilling  the  ob 
ligation  my  friend's  dying  request  laid  upon  me.  If  I 
could  not  help  to  raise  his  son  by  an  early  publication, 
I  could  at  least  hinder  noisome  discussion,  which  would 
have  injured  him  seriously.  With  the  death  of  the  law 
ful  Mrs.  Realf,  for  whom  there  can  be  nothing  but 
the  sweetest  of  sympathy,  and  the  passage  of  years 
laboriously  occupied  in  gathering  my  friend's  fugitive 
poems,  and  in  tracing  his  erratic  wanderings,  I  felt  that 
the  publication  of  poems  and  memoir  could  no  longer 
be  delayed.  I  am  assured  in  conscience  and  judgment 
that  its  effect  has  on  the  whole  been  wise. 

It  remains  necessary  in  completing  this  painful  record 
to  refer  to  the  authenticated  certificate  of  marriage, 
which  document  is  in  the  safe  of  the  publishers  of  this 
volume.  It  is  not  a  question  of  scandal,  nor  one  of  pun 
ishment  for  one  who  made  the  life  of  my  weak  and 
unhappy  friend  most  miserable,  causing  him  finally  to 
escape  by  the  gate  of  suicide.  That  the  woman,  to 
escape  whom  Realf  committed  suicide,  has  no  legal 
rights,  the  following  is  sufficient  proof: 


"No. Be   it   known,  that   on  the  gth  day  of 

June,  1865,  the  Clerk  of  the  Porter  Circuit  Court  issued 
a  marriage  license,  of  which  the  following  is  a  true 
record,  to-wit: 

Ixviii 


"State  of  Indiana,  Porter  Co..  ss: 

"  To  any  person  empowered  by  Law  to  solemnize  Mar 
riages  in  said  County: 

"  You  are  hereby  authorized  to  join  together  as  Hus 
band  and  Wife,  Richard  Realf  and  Sophie  E.  Graves, 
according  to  the  laws  of  the  State  of  Indiana. 

"  In  Testimony  Whereof,  I,  E.  J.  Jones,  Clerk  of  the 
Circuit  Court  of  said  County,   hereunto  subscribe  my 
name  and  (L.   S.)  affix  the  seal  of  said  Court,   at  my 
office  in  Valpariaso,  this  gth  day  of  June,  A.D.,  1865. 
E.  J.  JONES, 

by  H.  W.  Talcott,  Deputy." 


"State  of  Indiana,  Porter  Co.,  ss: 

"This  certifies  that  I  joined  in  marriage  as  husband 
and  wife,  Richard  Realf  and  Sophie  E.  Graves,  on  the 
loth  day  of  June,  1865. 

H.  H.   MORGAN, 

Pastor  Cong.  Church, 

Mich.  City." 

"  Filed  and  Recorded  the  2d  day  of  September,  A.D., 
1865.  E.  J.  JONES,  Clerk." 


"  State  of  Indiana,  Porter  County,  ss: 

"  I,  Rufus  P.  Wells,  Clerk  of  the  Circuit  Court  in  the 
County  of  Porter  and  the  State  of  Indiana,  hereby  cer 
tify  that  the  foregoing  is  a  full,  true,  and  complete  copy 
of  the  record,  marriage  license,  and  certificate  of  mar 
riage  ot  Richard  Reall  and  bophia  £,.  Graves,  now  ol 
record  in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Porter  Circuit 
Court. 

"  Witness  my  hand  and  the  seal  of  said  Court,  this 
[L.S.]  7th  day  of  October,  A.D.,  1879. 

RUFUS  P.  WELLS, 

Clerk  of  the  Circuit  Court." 

Ixix 


There  is  little  reason  to  doubt  that  on  mustering  out, 
March  20,  1866,  at  Vicksburg,  Realf  really  intended  to 
go  direct  to  Furnissville  and  the  home  of  his  wife. 
Somewhere  and  somehow  a  fantastic  impulse  led  to  his 
abandonment  of  this  purpose,  and  he  went  direct  to 
Washington  instead.  In  the  many  confidences  I  have 
had  extended  to  me,  and  the  kindly  help  that  has  often 
been  unstintedly  given  in  collecting  the  stray  and  widely 
dispersed  poems,  etc.,  of  my  friend,  I  have  learned  of 
many  incidents  that  are  liable  to  misinterpretation,  not 
necessary  to  repeat  or  publish.  There  was,  I  doubt 
not,  on  Realf's  part,  an  unwarranted  fancy  for  a  lady 
in  the  Federal  City.  She  was  an  accomplished,  graceful, 
and  intellectual  young  woman,  whom  he  became  slightly 
acquainted  with  at  a  house  he  boarded  in  while  waiting 
the  fall  before  for  his  commission  in  the  colored  regi 
ment,  and  there  could  never  have  been  any  warrant  on 
her  part  for  the  passionate  furore  that  appears  to  have 
possessed  him.  She  had  expressed  an  outspoken  admi 
ration  of  his  genius  as  a  poet.  But  Realf  went  to 
Washington  in  place  of  Indiana,  and  remained  there  a 
short  time,  when  he  left  for  the  Cumberland  Valley. 
He  then  proceeded  to  New  York  city.  Between  June 
and  August  there  is  no  trace  of  his  movements,  but  in 
the  latter  part  of  July  he  was  known  to  have  been  taken 
sick  of  fever  at  French's  Hotel,  for  a  paragraph  to  that 
effect  came  under  my  eye  at  the  Federal  City.  I  came 
to  New  York  soon  afterward,  for  the  purpose  of  finding 
him,  but  he  had  gone  elsewhere.  I  believe  John  Swinton 

Ixx 


found  him  at  the  time  and  comforted  him  with  the  glow 
of  his  true,  warm  friendship.  The  remarkable  corres 
pondence  Realf  had  with  the  head  of  the  Oneida  Com 
munity  belongs  to  this  pe:  iod  and  is  interesting, 
although  the  poet  never  entered  that  community.  The 
correspondence  is  too  lengthy  to  reproduce  in  full,  but, 
as  it  illustrates  the  strange  processes  of  my  friend's 
mentality,  I  give  several  of  the  letters,  access  to  which 
I  have  had  through  the  kindness  of  Theodore  L.  Pitt, 
Secretary  of  the  Community.  Realf's  letter  to  the  com 
munity,  written  from  French's  Hotel,  New  York,  July 
2,  1866.  was  as  follows: 

"  President  Perfectionist  Association — Sir:  I  have  the 
honor  respectfully  to  apply  for  information  respecting 
the  nature,  character  of  government,  and  conditions 
precedent  for  membership  of  the  Perfectionist  Society. 

"  Not  being  thoroughly  informed  upon  these  matters 
I  trouble  you  with  this  communication  to  state 

"That,  recently  at  Vicksburg,  Miss.,  I  learned  from 
a  former  comrade  in  arms  of  the  existence  of  your  soci 
ety.  That  I  am  34  years  of  age,  pretty  well  educated, 
that  in  various  grades  of  private,  non-commissioned 
officer,  and  officer,  I  served  four  years  in  the  volunteer 
army  of  the  Union,  that  I  have  in  my  possession  the 
official  proofs  of  this,  besides  the  proofs  of  the  recom 
mendation  of  seven  general  officers,  of  my  appointment 
to  a  First  Lieutenantcy  in  the  regular  army  of  the 
United  States  (from  which  my  refusal  to  endorse  the 
policy  of  President  Johnson  barred  me),  that  I  am  an 
occasional  contributor  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Harper's 
Monthly  and  Weekly,  that  since  my  muster  out  of  service 
three  months  ago,  I  have  resided  near  Vicksburg,  Miss., 

Ixxi 


that  I  came  north  partly  on  account  of  pecuniary  losses 
sustained  in  consequence  of  the  proscription  to  which 
loyal  men  are  subjected,  and  partly  for  the  purpose,  if  it 
were  possible,  of  associating  myself  with  your  own  or 
some  other  communistic  society, 
'  Far  off  from  the  clamor  of  liars,  belied  in  the  hubbub 

of  lies, 

Where  each  man  walks  with   his  head  in  a  cloud  of 
poisonous  flies.' 

"  I  arrived  in  this  city  this  morning  [Realf  left  Penn 
sylvania  a  month  before]  and  I  hasten  to  address  you 
this  brief  note,  trusting  to  elicit  from  your  courtesy  a 
reply  to  the  request  I  have  preferred,  as  well  as  a  state 
ment  whether  and  under  what  circumstances  I  should 
be  eligible  for  membership. 

"  I  am  quite  poor,  and  unaccustomed  to  manual  labor. 
I  am  willing,  however,  to  overcome  my  ignorance,  and 
I  should  not  at  all  object  to  pay  my  board  until  I  learned 
to  make  myself  useful.  If  you  give  me  the  information 
sought  for,  and  accord  me  permission  to  hold  a  personal 
interview,  I  will  bring  with  me  letters  and  papers  cor 
roborative  jf  all  the  statements  I  have  made.  Please 
address  me  by  nex£  mail  at  French's  Hotel. 
"Most  respectfully, 

"  RICHARD  REALF." 

A  friendly  response  was  written  to  this  letter  from 
Oneida,  and  as  Mr.  J.  H.  Noyes,  the  President  and 
founder  of  the  Oneida  Community,  was  at  that  time  in 
New  York  city,  it  was  suggested  that  Mr.  Realf  call 
upon  him. 

On  July  24,  Realf  wrote: 

4t  Dear   Sir:    Acting    upon    your    suggestion    I    have 

Ixxii 


called  upon  Mr.  Noyes,  and  held  a  long  conversation 
with  him.  ...  I  propose  to  visit  Oneida  on  Thurs 
day,  leaving  New  York  on  that  day.  I  have  read  very 
carefully  the  pamphlets  you  were  kind  enough  to  send 
me,  and  I  find  the  contents  of  one  to  be  embodied  in  the 
'  Berean,'  a  copy  of  which  I  purchased  from  Mr.  Noyes. 

"  I  shall  not  come  to  Oneida  with  any  purpose  of  being 
proselytized,  or  with  any  special  predisposition  towards 
you.  If,  as  I  think,  judging  from  what  my  friend  told 
me  about  you,  and  from  what  I  learn  through  other 
sources,  your  life  is  the  most  Christ-like  that  is  being 
lived — and  if  I  can  assimilate  myself  with  you,  not  in 
special  theoretical  views,  but  on  the  fundamental  basis 
of  the  soul  —  then  I  shall  seek  admittance  to  your 
community.  Nor  do  I  doubt  your  capacity  to  judge  of 
the  existence  of  such  assimilation,  if  it  shall  exist.  The 
eyes  of  the  pure-minded  see  very  clearly.  Whoso  is 
God-like,  he  hath  something  of  the  omniscience  of  God. 
.  .  It  is  right  before  I  come  that  I  should  relate  to 
you,  in  brief,  the  history  of  my  life.  [He  then  states  the 
main  points  of  his  career  without  comment.] 

"But  you  must  not  judge  that,  as  Mr.  Noyes  sug 
gested,  the  adventurous  and  changeful  character  of  the 
circumstances  of  my  life  indicate  desire  of  change.  I 
asked  him  to  try  whether  he  could  not  discover  a  spirit 
ual  unity  of  purpose  underlying  all  these  things;  and  I 
ask  you  to  try  and  do  the  same  thing. 

"  I  shall,  of  course,  be  glad  to  answer  any  questions 
which  may  be  asked  me,  and  I  have  mentioned  so  much 
of  what  is  personal  to  enable  you  the  better  to  propound 
them.  Briefly,  during  all  my  life,  I  have,  as  it  were, 
been  haunted  with  a  voice  as  of  heaven,  compelling  me 
upon  the  altars  of  sacrifice  and  renunciation.  Often  and 
often  I  have  tried  to  stifle  it;  often  and  often  I  have  vio- 

Ixxiii 


lated  its  commands — tried  to  smother  it,  denied  its  val 
idity,  blasphemed  its  sanctity;  but  never  could  I  escape 
it  for  all  that.  And  because  out  in  the  world  where 
people  don't  see  God,  for  that  He  is  out  of  physical  sight, 
I  can  not  live  after  the  awful  ideals  which  I  can  not  es 
cape;  because  out  in  the  world  the  howl  of  the  beast  so 
often  drowns  out  the  song  of  the  seraph  within  me;  be 
cause  the  cares  of  it  and  the  bitternesses  of  it  make  and 
keep  me  unclean;  because,  while  alien  from  God  and 
not  in  at-one-ment  I  perish  in  my  soul  until  I  am  so  re 
lated;  because  holding  it  true 

'  That  men  may  rise  on  stepping  stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things,' 

I  desire  to  die  to  all  sin,  and  to  become  alive  to  all  right 
eousness,  and  because  I  am  well  assured  that  those 
whom  the  Eternal  Spirit  has  awakened  from  low  and 
material  delights  to  a  state  of  spiritual  holiness  and  in 
tuition,  constitute,  as  it  were,  a  divine  atmosphere  for 
the  reinvigoration  of  needy  souls,  therefore  I  propose  to 
visit  your  Community,  in  the  belief  that  if  God  sees  it 
best  for  me  I  shall  gravitate  toward  you,  and  that  if  not 
I  shall  at  least  have  been  strengthened  and  comforted. 

"  Sincerely, 
•*  Theodore  L.  Pitt.  RICHARD  REALF." 

On   the    same   day  that  the  above  was  written,  Col. 
Realf  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Mr.  Noyes: 

"  French's  Hotel,  New  York,  July  24,  1866. 
"  Dear  Sir:  My  time  will  be  so  occupied  with  business 
engagements  during  the  remainder  of  my  stay  in  New 
York  city,  that  I  fear  I  may  not  again  be  able  to  do 
myself  the  pleasure  to  call  upon  you.  And  lest  I  should 
not,  I  desire  to  thank  you  very  sincerely  for  your  good- 

Ixxiv 


ness  to  me  yesterday,  and  to  add  one  or  two  words  to 
the  matter  of  our  discourse.  .  .  .  Under  all  and 
running  through  all  the  changeful  circumstances  of  my 
eventful  life  I  have  felt  and  heard — I  have  not  always 
obeyed — the  everlasting  imperative,  '  Thou  shalt  work 
in  well-doing,'  leaving  me  hardly  any  rest  by  day  or  by 
night,  because  I  could  not  translate  it  into  my  conduct 
in  the  manner  of  a  visible  gospel  of  truth  and  love. 
The  world  is  so  very  atheistic,  the  contagion  of  the 
world,  of  its  selfishness  and  its  jealousies,  its  mean  pas 
sions  and  meaner  aims,  is  so  easy  of  acquisition,  that  it 
has  sometimes — quite  often — caused  me  to  be  worsted 
by  the  devil  in  the  encounters  which  in  common  with  all 
men  I  have  had  to  undergo.  But  nevertheless  I  could 
not  content  myself  to  live  after  the  outward  semblance 
— I  could  not  rest  in  the  visible  comfort — I  wanted  al 
ways  to  live  in  accord  with  the  Invisible  Truth,  and 
very  many  times  it  seems  to  me  that  the  struggle  in  my 
nature  between  the  beast  and  the  seraph,  the  flesh  and 
the  spirit,  was  greater  than  I  could  bear.  It  seemed 
sometimes  as  if  '  All  his  waves  had  gone  over  me,'  and 
as  if  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  die. 

"  Do  you,  indeed,  doubt  the  existence  of  a  certain 
class  of  souls  that  can  not  satisfy  their  natures  with  the 
common  modes  of  life,  in  whom  a  hidden  principle 
drives  them,  so  to  speak,  to  seek  better  and  nobler 
modes  of  life,  in  whom  the  longing  after  the  infinite 
predominates,  and  by  whom  all  other  ties  must  be  loos 
ened  and  sacrificed,  if  need  be,  to  the  growth  and  devel 
opment  of  the  soul  ?  Do  you,  indeed,  doubt  that  there 
are  some  in  the  world  who,  although  alienated  from 
God,  would  gladly  submit  to  everything  of  suffering 
and  privation  if,  thereby,  they  could  be  brought  into  a 
relationship  of  oneness  with  their  Heavenly  Parent  ? 


Ixxv 


"  But  indeed,  sir,  there  are  such  men  and  women, 
who  neither  by  the  wealth,  nor  the  praises,  nor  the 
pleasures,  nor  the  honors,  nor  the  splendors  and  power 
of  the  world,  can  be  satisfied;  men  and  women  who  are 
bankrupt,  finding  not  the  peace  of  God.  And  are  not 
such  people  of  you  and  yours,  whether  with  them  or 
not?  To  die  to  sin  and  to  live  to  righteousness,  is  not 
that  your  faith  also  ?  It  is  not  necessary  to  pronounce 
any  shibboleth  to  become  one  of  you,  is  it?  If  I  desire 
to  be  at  one  with  Christ,  so  that  His  grace  and  love  and 
purity  may  run  through  me  like  a  channel,  that  is 
enough,  is  it  not?  And  I  believe  that  just  in  proportion 
as  we  are  Christ-like  we  attain  His  infallibility  of  in 
sight  and  judgment  into  the  characters  of  men.  I  have 
no  fears.  Therefore,  dear  sir,  I  shall  go  to  Oneida, 
making  my  proposed  visit,  trusting  everything  to  the 
direction  of  the  Higher  Powers  which  have  guided  my 
life  hitherto.  If  I  (to  use  your  own  term)  assimilate 
with  you,  I  shall  remain.  If  not,  still  do  me  the  justice 
to  believe  that  wherever  I  am  and  whatever  I  may  do,  I 
shall  not  cease  to  labor  and  pray  that  '  His  will  may  be 
done  on  earth  even  as  it  is  in  Heaven; '  and  so  I  am, 
"  Gratefully  your  friend, 

"  RICHARD  REALF." 

The  days  passed,  but  Realf  did  not  appear  at  Oneida. 
Nothing  was  heard  from  him  till  the  middle  of  August, 
when  he  wrote  that  he  had  been  very  ill  with  typhoid 
fever,  but  still  expressing  his  determination  of  visiting 
the  Community. 

The  poet  never  went  to  Oneida,  but  Secretary  Pitt 
says  that,  sometime  in  the  following  October,  he  re 
ceived  a  letter,  evidently  from  a  woman,  signed  S.  E. 

Ixxvi 


Realf,  and  dated  at  Furnissville,  Ind.,  making  inquiries 
in  regard  to  Col.  Realf.  From  subsequent  brief  letters 
from  her,  it  appears  that  she  had  received  copies  of  the 
poet's  letters  to  the  Community.  On  recovering  from 
his  illness,  Realf  appears  to  have  left  New  York  city, 
probably  intending  to  go  to  Oneida,  but  the  army  re 
cruiting  records  show  that  he  got  no  further  than 
Rochester. 

The  private  soldier  soon  began  to  electrify  the  literary 
people  of  Rochester  by  the  publication  of  a  number  of 
poems,  which  attracted  the  attention  of  men  like  Ros- 
siter  Johnson,  who  was  then  on  the  staff  of  the  Democrat, 
of  which  the  writer  was  the  Washington  correspondent. 
Mr.  Johnson  sought  the  poet's  acquaintance,  after  hav 
ing  ascertained  his  identity  with  the  authorship  of  con 
tributions  to  magazines  which  had  not  escaped  his  vigi 
lant  critical  notice,  only  to  find  that  he  was  a  soldier 
who  had  just  been  ordered  from  the  city.  Of  Realf's 
gravest  fault  and  greater  misfortune  in  the  illegal  mar 
riage  contracted  there,  Mr.  Johnson  knew  nothing  till 
years  after  his  death.  Catherine  Cassidy  and  Richard 
Realf  were  married  at  the  Church  of  the  Trinity, 
Rochester,  early  in  October,  1867.  Realf  himself  never 
denied  his  folly  in  this  matter,  though  he  never  ac 
knowledged,  except  to  his  sister,  some  ten  years  later, 
the  illegality  of  the  act.  It  is  not  supposable  that  he 
believed  himself  to  have  then  had  another  and  living 
wife.  There  has  been  no  direct  evidence  before  me  to 
prove  that  he  even  inquired  as  to  the  whereabouts,  or  of 

Ixxvii 


the  life  or  death  of  the  lady,  but  there  are  many  details 
which  circumstantially  go  to  show  that  somehow  he 
learned  of  her  severe  illness  from  brain  fever  at  Fur- 
nissville,  after  his  disappearance  in  the  spring  of  1866. 

Her  departure  from  Indiana,  and  the  change  made 
in  the  spelling  of  her  married,  and  later  of  her  maiden 
name,  might  well  have  led  to  the  conclusion  from  fugi 
tive  researches,  that  she  was  not  living.  In  some  ex 
ceedingly  pathetic  letters,  he  afterward  wrote,  when 
jealousy  made  his  second  companion  a  raging  terror  to 
him,  that  his  Rochester  marriage  was  contracted  "  dur 
ing  a  prolonged  debauch;"  and  to  myself  and  Col.  Sam 
uel  F.  Tappen,  his  two  oldest  Kansas  friends,  he  declared 
that  he  so  acted  "  in  a  fit  of  mental  aberration." 

Realf  was  mustered  out  of  the  army  at  Fort  Columbus, 
New  York,  and  then  became  confidential  clerk  to  Gen. 
Ingalls,  Assistant  Quartermaster-General,  U.  S.  A.  Like 
others  of  his  always  loving  friends,  I  had  lost  personal 
trace  of  him  until  the  accounts  of  a  scandal  appeared  in 
the  New  York  newspapers.  Realf  was  charged  by  James 
Cassidy,  of  New  York,  with  having  on  the  Qth  of  Febru 
ary,  1869,  stolen  from  him  the  sum  of  $40.  On  this 
charge  the  poet  was  taken  to  the  Tombs  on  February 
I3th,  before  Police  Justice  Hogan.  He  denied  the  theft, 
but  admitted  taking  the  money,  as  his  own  or  as  due  to 
him  from  "the  father  of  Catherine."  He  was  dis 
charged  on  his  own  recognizance,  and,  though  indicted, 
the  matter  was  never  pressed  to  trial.  Mr.  W.  B. 
Clarke,  a  former  comrade  of  Realf's,  made  a  thorough 

Ixxviii 


inquiry,  and,  after  sending  a  copy  of  the  official  record, 
declared  that  the  charge  was  trumped  up,  as  the  result 
only  of  a  marital  quarrel.  On  the  i8th,  Realf  was 
discharged,  without  trial,  and  after  a  plea  of  "not 
guilty"  upon  his  verbal  recognizance.  It  was  just  after 
this  unfortunate  affair  that  Realf  left  for  South  Car 
olina.  He  was  driven  in  shame  to  this  departure,  as  he 
had  often  been  assailed  violently  in  General  Ingalls' 
office.  The  latter  himself  told  me  that  these  outbreaks 
often  approached  insanity.  In  South  Carolina,  as  else 
where,  this  woe-driven  son  of  genius,  made  his  presence 
felt  at  once.  His  arrival  in  that  State  was  during  the 
Reconstruction  turmoil.  The  poet  won  political  as  well 
as  personal  friends  at  once.  Whatever  faults  may  be 
charged  to  Richard  Realf,  that  of  laziness  is  not  one, 
for  my  personal  knowledge  and  continued  re-search 
prove  him  to  have  been  ready  for  work  at  every  oppor 
tunity.  He  wrote  for  the  Republican  State  paper  and 
also  taught  in  a  colored  school  at  Graniteville.  Every 
thing  was  going  smoothly  till  his  fate  again  appeared. 
Then  her  violent  "  colorphobia  "  compelled  him  to  give 
up  the  school.  He  had  made  himself  felt  as  a  Republi 
can  speaker.  This  he  did  at  great  risk,  and  the  constant 
danger  of  personal  violence  which  surrounded  him  at 
this  time  is  shown  in  a  letter,  the  first  direct  communi 
cation  I  had  received  from  him  for  several  years — sent 
to  me  at  Washington,  just  after  he  had  been  appointed 
Assistant  United  States  Assessor  of  Internal  Revenue 
at  Graniteville.  In  this  letter,  dated  Graniteville,  S.  C., 

Ixxix 


July  9,  1869,  he  recounted  at  length  the  dangers  and 
difficulties  of  his  position,  and  urged  me  as  one  he  be 
lieved  to  be  influential  with  the  existing  Republican 
administration,  to  aid  him  in  getting  transferred  to  some 
other  locality  and  branch  of  the  public  service. 

I  tried  to  do  what  my  friend  wished,  but  failed 
through  a  technical  difficulty — revenue  appointments 
being  purely  local  and  not  open  to  transfers.  The  next 
thing  I  heard  was  that  Realf  had  been  publicly  derided 
in  his  own  household,  that  some  revenue  money  had  been 
misappropriated,  but  not  by  him,  and  generally  that  his 
family  circumstances  were  insupportable.  Letters  giving 
gross  details  are  in  my  possession,  and  such  Republican 
friends  as  the  former  chief  of  the  South  Carolina  State 
police,  who  was  living  in  San  Francisco  when  I  met  him 
a  few  years  since,  have  told  me  that  these  allegations 
were  correct,  the  police  official  having  himself  made 
an  inquiry.  The  small  defalcation  was  made  good  by 
friends,  but  Realf  could  not  be  induced  to  return,  having 
gone  to  Augusta,  Georgia.  He  then  left  for  the  North, 
and  the  next  known  of  him  was  by  mention  in  the  daily 
papers  of  Indianapolis,  where  his  Nemesis  had  again 
found  him.  Scandal  at  once  arose  and  Realf  again  dis 
appeared.  In  December,  1869,  he  was  heard  of  at  Pitts- 
burg,  in  a  destitute  condition.  The  temperance  move 
ment  inaugurated  by  Francis  Murphy  was  well  under 
way,  and  Realf  at  once  became  one  of  its  most  shining 
converts.  He  was  then  befriended  by  gentlemen  whose 
manly  charity  soon  lifted  him  into  usefulness  and  posi- 

Ixxx 


tion,  affording  him  thereby  six  years  of  successful  and 
attractive  life — an  oasis  indeed,  amid  the  bleak  and 
blasted  barrens  of  his  desert  years.  The  horrors  of  the 
six  years  preceding,  even  though  he  himself  had  woven 
the  corroding  meshes,  are  almost  unendurable  even  to 
research,  and  perfectly  unspeakable  as  to  publicity  of 
detail.  What  must  they  have  been  to  him  who  suffered  ? 
At  last,  however,  he  stiffened  against  the  fury  that  pur 
sued.  Yet  when  it  appeared  in  Pittsburg,  carrying  an 
infant  in  arms,  Realf  believing,  nay  hoping,  for  a  short 
period,  that  the  babe  might  be,  as  was  asserted,  his  own 
child,  seriously  designed  taking  up  again  his  sad  life- 
burden.  This  is  shown  by  a  letter  written  to  a  friend, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Hanna  (now  of  Washington,  D.  C.),  whose 
church  he  afterward  joined.  Becoming  convinced,  how 
ever,  that  the  child  had  been  obtained  from  an  orphan 
asylum,  and  that  its  age  forbade  his  being  its  father,  he 
refused  to  care  for  the  alleged  mother.  On  her  com 
plaint  of  abandonment,  he  was  arrested  and  incarcerated 
in  the  city  jail.  Through  the  efforts  of  the  Reverend 
David  Schindler  and  some  other  friends,  Realf  was  soon 
released,  and  began  again  his  temperance  work.  At 
this  time  he  was  the  inmate  of  a  Christian  Home,  and 
was  a  constant  writer  for  The  Christian  Radical.  The 
child  alleged  to  be  his  soon  died,  and  Realf  steadily  de 
clined  a  renewal  of  marital  life. 

In  1872,  when  I  was  in  Pittsburg  on  the  occasion  of  a 
Union  soldiers'  and  sailors'  convention,  for  which  Realf 
wrote  one  of  his  strongest  lyrics,  entitled  "  Rally," 

Ixxxi 


Mr.  Brigham,  editor-in-chief  of  the  Pittsburg  Commer 
cial,  the  paper  on  which  Realf  served  for  five  years  as 
an  editorial  writer,  described  to  me  the  way  in  which 
he  was  pursued  by  his  fate.  He  told  me  of  the  inter 
est  Realf's  story,  and  especially  his  eloquence,  had 
aroused.  He  went  to  hear  him  one  evening,  and  during 
the  speech  a  woman  created  a  disturbance.  As  Mr.  Brig- 
ham  watched  Col.  Realf,  he  became  impressed  with  the 
conviction  that  a  serious  tragedy  was  impending.  He 
felt  that  the  outraged  orator  would,  if  no  one  inter 
vened,  soon  do  some  desperate  act.  Realf  once  declared 
to  me  while  in  San  Francisco  that  he  would  kill  the 
woman  and  himself  too  if  he  was  again  followed.  So 
the  kindly-hearted,  cool-headed  editor  secured  an  intro 
duction  and  asked  Realf  to  call  and  see  him  on  the  next 
morning.  He  promised  and  was  on  hand  to  a  minute. 
Mr.  Brigham  at  once  asked  if  Realf  wanted  work.  The 
editor  was  embarrassed  when  Realf  looked  at  him  in  a 
dazed  fashion,  and  then  burst  into  tears.  The  result 
was  his  immediate  employment  at  a  fair  salary,  which 
was  soon  increased.  Realf  remained  in  that  office  until 
1876,  when  the  paper  was  merged  with  another.  Mr. 
Brigham,  now  dead,  told  me  after  Realf's  death  that 
he  both  trusted  and  honored  him,  and  never  saw  or 
personally  heard  of  any  loose  or  other  unworthy  con 
duct.  He  opened  his  own  doors  to  his  brilliant  associate, 
and  as  he  had  daughters  to  care  for  and  was  a  man  of 
the  strictest  morality,  the  fact  shows  trust  and  esteem. 
Realf  was  unquestionably  much  esteemed  by  his  profes- 

Ixxxii 


sional  associates.  That  six  years  was  a  harvest  time 
of  good  endeavor  and  finished  work.  He  lectured  a 
good  deal.  His  military  poems  gained  him  renown. 
He  published  largely  and  in  most  ways  forged  steadily 
to  the  front. 

In  September,  1872,  Col.  Realf  applied  for  a  divorce: 
the  Rochester  woman,  having  remained  in  Pittsburg, 
still  caused  him  much  annoyance.  The  case  was  heard 
before  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas  for  Alleghany 
County,  on  the  I4th  of  February,  1873,  and  decided  in 
Realf 's  favor,  the  "jury  having  found  the  facts  in  com 
plainant's  bill  to  be  true,"  and  it  was  "ordered  that 
said  Richard  Realf  be  divorced."  The  libellant  was 
also  ordered  to  "pay  the  cost  of  this  proceeding,"  and 
the  decree  was  made  absolute.  At  this  time  Realf  was 
in  the  fullest  health  and  spirit,  rejoicing  over  his  free 
dom.  His  sister,  Sarah  Whapham,  her  husband  and 
family,  had  come  from  England,  and  settled  at  farming 
at  Bulger,  Pennsylvania.  He  also  planned  a  visit  to  his 
parents,  which  was  carried  out  in  the  early  summer. 
His  letters  to  Mrs.  Whapham  and  other  friends  during 
this  period  were  joyous  in  tone  and  even  boyish  in 
spirit.  He  evidently  enjoyed  his  visit  to  Buxton  and 
elsewhere  in  England. 

On  his  return,  however,  and  arrival  at  Pittsburg,  he 
was  met  by  news  that  staggered  and  unmanned  him. 
An  appeal  had  been  taken  to  the  Supreme  Court,  and 
it,  by  a  decree  "  venire  facia  de  novo"  ordered  a  reversal 
of  the  divorce.  The  Court  declared  that  the  specific 

Ixxxiii 


charges  were  not  proven,  and  the  Court  allowed  libel- 
lant  to  reopen  the  case.  The  result  was  a  reversal  of 
the  verdict.  Realf  paid  alimony  until  early  in  1877, 
when  he  declared  and  proved  his  inability  to  do  so  any 
longer.  His  attorneys  urged  upon  him  to  renew  the 
application,  declaring  the  setting  aside  to  have  been 
purely  technical,  and  that  they  could  readily  re-win  the 
suit.  Realf  refused  to  take  any  further  action.  When 
told  of  the  reversal  at  his  editorial  desk,  he  fell  in  a 
syncope  upon  the  floor  and  broke  down  utterly.  His 
sister  afterward  said  that  her  brother's  sanity  had,  she 
feared,  been  affected  ever  since  the  decree  was  revoked. 
She  added  that  insanity  was  "hereditary  in  the  Realf 
family,"  mentioning  that  two  brothers  and  two  sisters 
of  their  mother  had  been  so  afflicted,  one  of  the  brothers 
being  a  suicide.  Realf  believed  the  woman  to  be  his 
evil  fate,  and  was  all  the  time  trying  to  make  that  con 
viction  square  with  the  nobler  spiritual  courage  that  he 
still  possessed.  It  was  at  this  time  he  wrote  : 

"We  do  not  rightly  seize  the  type  of  Socrates  if  we 
can  ever  forget  he  was  the  husband  of  Xantippe, 
nor  of  David  if  we  can  only  think  of  him  as  the  mur 
derer  of  Uriah,  nor  Peter  if  we  can  simply  remember 
that  he  denied  the  Master.  Our  vision  is  only  blind 
ness  if  we  can  never  bring  ourselves  to  see  the  possibil 
ities  of  deep  mystic  aspirations  behind  the  outer  life  of 
a  man." 

The  loss  of  his  editorial  position  hurt,  and  he  was, 
by  his  own  nerveless  volition,  soon  in  the  toils  of  another 

Ixxxiv 


union,  which  renewed  anger  on  the  part  of  her  from 
whom  he  was,  like  a  blind  man  without  a  guiding  sound 
or  stick,  aimlessly  seeking  to  escape.  Yet  he  sought  in 
work  to  meet  the  new  obligations  that  bore  upon  him. 
There  was  nothing  of  public  moment,  except  his  literary 
work,  between  1873  and  the  spring  of  1877.  His  brain 
and  soul,  however,  seem  to  have  become  clarified.  He 
published  quite  freely,  writing  among  others  at  this 
time  his  striking  poem  of  "  Loyalty  and  Charity,"  the 
"Song  of  Pittsburg,"  and  "Introspection  and  Retro 
spection,"  for  the  centennial  celebration  of  1876.  Most 
of  his  deepest  and  purest  sonnets,  "  Christdom,"  also 
"  Symbolism,"  "  Little  Children,"  "  My  Slain,"  were  of 
this  period.  And  it  is  with  these,  and  not  the  crawling? 
of  the  flesh,  except  as  they  influence  or  divert,  that  we 
are  concerned. 

The  next  step  in  his  embittered  life  was  made  in  a 
very  sincere  effort  on  his  part  to  win  a  working  place 
for  himself  and  those  then  dependent  upon  him,  as  a 
lecturer  on  literary,  ethical,  and  political  questions.  By 
the  fall  of  1877  he  had  launched  out  fairly  as  a  lecturer. 
He  carefully  prepared  addresses  on  "Temperance," 
he  being  then  regarded  as,  next  to  Francis  Murphy,  the 
orator  of  the  movement  that  bears  the  latter's  name. 
In  addition  he  had  a  famous  war  oration — "  Battle 
Flashes;"  one  on  the  "Public  Schools  and  their  Free 
dom  from  Sectarian  Control;"  "John  Brown,"  which 
was  never  written  out  in  full;  "  Shakespeare;"  "Poetry 
and  Labor,"  and  others.  His  addresses  at  Grand  Army 

Ixxxv 


posts  and  reunions,  made  chiefly  in  Pennsylvania 
and  Ohio,  were  very  popular.  He  was  unfortunate 
in  not  being  able  to  secure  a  good  business  manager, 
and  in  entering  upon  this  field  at  a  period  of  severe 
business  depression.  He  was  popular  and  well  known 
all  through  Central  and  Northern  Ohio,  and  in  West 
ern  and  Central  Pennsylvania,  yet  the  weary  winter's 
work  brought  only  disaster  and  ill  health.  He  became 
the  trusted  friend  of  a  Springfield  family,  and  to  the 
youngest  daughter  of  this  household  I  am  indebted 
for  the  use  of  a  series  of  letters,  which,  as  John  Mor- 
ley  wrote  of  Rousseau's  letters  to  Therese,  "are  like 
one  of  the  great  master  symphonies  whose  themes  fall 
in  strokes  of  melting  pity  upon  the  heart."  The 
sincere  friendship  of  this  large-brained  young  woman, 
Mary  P.  Nimmo  (now  Mrs.  Ballantyne,  of  Washing 
ton),  evoked  as  sincere  a  regard  on  Realf's  part. 
There  are  a  large  number  of  these  letters  written  day 
by  day,  couched  in  the  tones  of  a  fond  but  sick 
brother.  Evidently  they  were  met  in  the  same  spirit. 
I  give  a  few  extracts.  These  letters  cover  several 
months  of  hard  work,  mental  agony,  and  severe  physical 
suffering,  including  internal  hurts  caused  by  a  railway 
collision,  and  the  affliction  which,  in  the  late  winter  and 
spring  of  1877,  produced  almost  complete  blindness  and 
long  confinement  in  a  New  York  hospital.  Space  does 
not  permit  the  use  of  such  copious  extracts  from  these 
letters  as  both  judgment  and  inclination  would  justify. 
I  give,  however,  without  date,  (except  to  say  that 

Ixxxvi 


they  were  written  in  October  and   November  of  1876), 
some  brief  quotations: 

"  I  am  breaking  down,  and  have  a  horrible  racking 
cough.  But  that  does  not  prevent  me  from  remember 
ing  with  delighted  gratitude  your  own,  your  mother's, 
and  your  sister's  manifold  fragrant  kindnesses. 
.  .  .  How  very  greatly  you  mistake  alike  the  facts 
and  the  desire,  in  your  talk  about  '  wealth.'  There  is 
not  a  poorer  man,  so  far  as  money  is  concerned,  in  the 
country,  than  myself.  I  live  from  hand  to  mouth.  Is 
it  any  wonder  that  I  am  solicitous,  and  that  my  failing 
physical  powers  (I  am  paying  the  costs  of  my  service 
during  the  war)  make  me  very  anxious  regarding  the 
possible  future  ?  I  have  never  cared  for  money,  except 
as  it  enabled  me  to  help  others.  I  wish  I  had.  Even  a 
fool's  forehead  takes  on  a  philosophic  seeming  when  it 
is  gilded  with  gold.  I  wish  I  might  come  to  your  quiet 
home  and  rest  awhile.  I  hunger  toward  you,  for 
getting  your  youth  and  beauty,  my  age  and  decrepi 
tude,  and  the  impassable  gulf  between  us,  and  only  fam 
ishing  for  the  touch  of  your  hand,  the  sound  of  your 
voice,  and  the  serene  restfulness  of  your  presence.  I 
will  surely  come  when  I  can,  and  as  fast.  So  would 
any  other  starveling  beggar,  homeless  amid  a  world  of 
spiritual  homes.  Don't  mind  my  words.  ...  I 
think  I  should  like  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep  a  whole 
week,  and  then  awake  in  the  everlastingnesses.  I  am 
tired  !  It  is  not  the  outward  winter,  dear  friend,  that  is 
bleak,  it  is  the  inward  dreariness."  .  .  . 

In  1876,  removed  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  so,  for 
the  time  being,  lost  track  of  Realf's  movements.  I 
knew  that  he  had  lost  his  editorial  position,  but  thought 
him  fairly  successful  in  the  lecture  field,  until  a  pathetic 

Ixxxvii 


letter  reached  me,  exposing  his  woful  condition.  I  at 
once  made  an  effort  to  aid  him.  There  were  several  old 
Kansas  friends  on  the  coast,  among  them  being  Col. 
Samuel  F.  Tappan,  who  was  a  close  personal  friend; 
Henry  Villard  had  also  met  Realf  and  was  ready  to  help 
with  transportation;  Col.  Alexander  T.  Hawes,  a  lead 
ing  insurance  man  of  San  Francisco,  was  an  old  Kansas 
friend,  and  ready  to  help.  The  writer  owes  sincere 
thanks  to  this  gentleman,  for  his  own  as  well  as  Realf's 
sake  and  name.  Ex-General  John  F.  Miller,  on  whose 
staff  Col.  Realf  had  served,  expressed  earnest  sympathy 
and  was  most  helpful,  warranting  the  statement,  also 
that  he  would  see  to  his  ex-staff  officer's  employment 
after  his  arrival  in  San  Francisco.  So  with  the  aid  of 
Mr.  Villard,  Hon.  Russell  Errett,  and  Senator  John  P. 
Jones,  transportation  was  procured  from  New  York  to 
Ogden,  at  which  place  I  was  enabled  to  have  him  fur 
nished  for  the  trip  to  the  coast.  A  small  purse  was  also 
filled. 

In  this  sad  stress  the  helpful  friend  in  New  York 
proved  to  be  Rossiter  Johnson,  and  he  has  remained  so 
through  all  the  years  that  have  followed.  Before  re 
ceiving  Realf's  letter,  on  seeing  a  statement  that  the 
wife  of  a  literary  man  named  Realf  had  become  the 
mother  of  triplets  and  was  in  distress,  Mr.  Johnson 
made  an  energetic  effort  to  find  out  if  she  was  related 
to  the  poet  he  admired,  and,  having  done  so,  proceeded 
to  do  what  he  might  to  lift  her  burdens  a  little.  The 
boy  Richard  was  cared  for  at  the  Child's  Hospital, 

Ixxxviii 


where,  however,  he  contracted  a  disease  of  the  eyes, 
which,  soon  after,  his  father  took  from  him,  and  was 
thereby  soon  prostrated  almost  to  the  verge  of  blindness. 
The  mother  was  cared  for  at  the  Homeopathic  Hospital 
on  Ward's  Island.  The  girl  children  were  soon  after 
ward  adopted  by  a  lady  of  means.  Realf  himself  was 
admitted  to  the  New  York  Opthalmic  Hospital.  His 
pathetic,  broken,  yet  still  hopeful,  spirited  letters  to  Mr. 
Johnson  show  his  condition,  mental  and  material,  at  the 
time  much  more  forcibly  than  other  words  can  do.  In 
one  letter,  dated  May  13,  he  wrote: 

"  I  think  I  can  give,  some  day,  under  favorable  con 
ditions,  some  interesting  reminiscences  of  great  English 
men  and  women.  And  perhaps  I  may,  if  I  live  long 
enough,  write  my  autobiography.  ...  I  am  walk 
ing  the  edges  of  the  abysses.  I  hope  God  will  bring  us 
through  the  stress  safely.  I  have  erred  greatly  in  my 
life,  and  suffered  greatly,  but  I  have  always  been  a  ser 
vant  and  never  a  hireling  of  the  truth." 


Later  he  wrote  again  to  Mr.  Johnson: 


"  I  thank  you  very  deeply  for  all  your  goodness.  But 
you  can  judge  how  impossible  it  has  been  for  me,  in  this 
culminative  stress,  to  do  any  worthy  work.  Sometimes 
I  fear  I  am  losing  my  grip  on  myself.  Do  you  know  of 
anybody  in  the  city  who  would  give  one  a  hundred  or  a 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  cash  down  for  the  sole  right 
and  title  to  all  I  may  have  .written  ?  If  I  could  get  a 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  my  verses,  I  would  send 

L (his  wife)  to  a  hospital,  and  take  for  myself  a 

second-class  ticket  to  San  Francisco.  .  .  . 

"  I  will  tell  you,  when  I  see  you,  of  the  reasons  why 

Ixxxix 


I  am  so  desirous  to  get  far  away,  far  away.  They  are 
not  base  ones;  but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  that  of 
which  I  am  capable  in  the  East, — at  least,  not  until  a 
certain  person  dies;  and  you  know  it  is  written  that  'the 
good  die  first.'  Out  in  San  Francisco  I  can  find  work, 
and  recover  my  poise." 

Under  date  of  May  23,  1877,  he  wrote  to  Miss  Nimmo, 
at  Springfield,  Ohio: 

"I  have  suffered  excruciating  tortures.  I  never 
thought  I  should  be  so  poor,  and  helpless,  and  sightless, 
but  it  is  God's  will;  God's  will  be  done." 

On  the  24th  he  wrote: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  troubling  you.  It  may  be 
the  last  time.  I  can  not  tell.  I  can  not  see  a  word  of 
that  which  I  write.  I  can  barely  distinguish  the  black 
marks.  I  am  in  so  desperate  a  strait  as  to  humble  my 
pride  enough  to  say  that  I  would  be  very  grateful  if 
the  friends  of  temperance  in  Springfield,  who  re 
member  me  with  any  interest,  would,  in  view  of  my 
affliction,  (I  am  almost  totally  blind — entirely  so  so  far 
as  reading  is  concerned)  of  the  fact  that  I  am  at  the  end 
of  my  scanty  resources,  and  that  this  is  not  a  free  hos 
pital,  contribute  a  little  purse  toward  the  alleviation  of 
my  present  pressing  needs.  I  do  not  mind  thus  unbar 
ing  my  bosom  to  you,  but  I  should  not  like  it  to  be 
known  to  any  one  else  that  the  suggestion  came  from 
me." 

Richard  Realf  arrived  in  San  Francisco  during  the 
first  week  of  July,  1878.  He  resided  there  less  than 
four  months,  before  taking  his  own  life  at  Oakland,  on 
the  28th  of  October  following.  The  friends  who  wel- 

xc 


corned  him  on  his  arrival  were  shocked  at  his  physical 
weakness.  He  was  feeble  in  step  and  evidently  had 
barely  recovered  from  a  struggle  for  mere  existence. 
His  voice,  always  musical  in  tone,  now  ran  habitually 
on  a  minor  key,  vibrant  with  a  deep  sadness.  His  still 
abundant  hair  was  almost  white,  and  the  face  was  worn 
and  lined  with  suffering.  It  was  apparent  at  once  that 
he  was  unfit,  temporarily  at  least,  for  work  of  any  kind, 
though  his  anxiety  therefor  was  feverishly  eager.  He 
was  made  comfortable,  and,  a  few  days  afterward, 
Gen.  Miller  took  him  to  the  Napa  Valley,  and  made  him 
his  guest  on  a  beautiful  ranch  the  family  owned  there. 
Had  Realf  so  chosen,  the  General  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  made  for  him  a  permanent  abode  thereon,  and, 
indeed,  the  offer  of  a  sort  of  stewardship,  or  at  least 
bookkeeper  with  residence,  was  made.  But  Realf's 
original  design  of  writing  and  lecturing  had  the  strong 
est  hold.  He  was,  above  all  else,  desirous  of  bringing 
his  boy  and  the  mother,  of  whom  he  always  spoke  with 
ardent  affection,  to  San  Francisco  as  speedily  as  pos 
sible.  To  that  end  he  urged  an  application  for  a  clerk 
ship  in  the  U.  S.  Mint,  of  which  another  Kansas  friend, 
General  Lagrange,  was  then  superintendent.  There 
was  no  vacancy,  but  the  promise  of  appointment  at  the 
first  opportunity  was  made,  and  the  Colonel  was  offered 
a  place  temporarily  on  the  laborers'  roll,  in  the  melting 
and  coining  room.  He  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  he  was  unfit  for  this  work,  but,  half 
blind,  worn  from  recent  illness,  suffering  too  from 


chronic  attacks  of  rheumatism  and  other  results  of 
army  service,  he  still  persisted.  His  work  was  carrying 
the  molten  gold  from  furnace  to  coining  machine  and 
tables.  Once  he  stumbled  and  was  severely  burned.  I 
write  of  this  because  there  was  always  something  stal 
wart  in  Realf's  determination  to  care  for  himself,  and  in 
the  reticence  also  which  prevented  his  warmest  friends 
from  fully  knowing  of  his  conditions  and  circumstances. 
His  pay  was  small,  not,  I  believe,  over  $60  per  month. 
He  lived  economically  and  constantly  sent  small  sums 
to  New  York  for  those  he  had  left  behind. 

His  presence  soon  attracted  attention.  The  city  news 
papers  mentioned  him  in  pleasant  terms,  and  these  notices 
were  referred  to  by  Eastern  papers.  In  this  way  his  new 
residence,  unfortunately,  became  known  to  the  one 
person  he  desired  to  avoid,  together  with,  in  all  proba 
bility,  an  exaggerated  idea  of  his  well-doing.  Person 
ally  I  became  aware  of  her  watchfulness  by  the  receipt 
of  an  insolent  letter,  signed  by  the  name  of  "  Holmes," 
certainly  a  person  wholly  unknown  to  me,  in  which  I 
was  berated  for  inducing  a  man  to  desert  his  wife;  the 
reference,  of  course,  being  to  Richard  Realf ,  and  the  per 
son  who,  at  Pittsburg,  claimed  to  bear  his  name.  Nat 
urally  angered  at  such  a  missive,  for  I  had  but  the 
merest  shadow  of  knowledge  of  my  friend's  troubles,  I 
showed  the  letter  on  his  return  to  the  city  from  the 
Napa  Valley,  and  asked  for  an  explanation.  This  was 
given  at  once,  and  his  position  proven  by  the  production 
of  the  original  divorce  papers  and  many  newspaper  ex- 

xcii 


tracts,  showing  the  pursuit  and  persecution  to  which  he 
had  been  subjected.  The  point  of  this  explanation  lay 
in  the  fact  of  a  very  deliberately  expressed  determina 
tion  on  his  part  to  commit  suicide,  and  perhaps  kill  the 
woman  herself,  if  she  followed  him  to  San  Francisco. 

At  this  time  Realf  was  making  good  progress  toward 
health  and  something  of  prosperity.  Some  of  his  poems 
were  printed  in  the  San  Francisco  Evening  Post,  and  a 
larger  number  in  The  Argonaut,  the  most  attractive  Cal 
ifornia  weekly,  of  which  Frank  M.  Pixley  was  then  the 
editor.  If  he  had  not  worked  so  hard  physically — for 
he  was  unfit  for  drudgery  of  any  sort — and  had  taken 
General  Miller's  offer,  Richard  Realf  would  have  re 
gained  his  health,  and  with  it  that  mental  courage  and 
spiritual  balance  against  which  even  his  pursuer  could 
not  have  prevailed. 

Arriving  in  San  Francisco  on  the  26th  of  October, 
1878,  in  some  way  she  had  obtained  his  address  with  a 
family  named  Mead,  on  Mission  Street,  quite  near  the 
mint.  Realf  was  at  his  work  when  she  arrived.  As  he 
had  often  spoken  of  his  "wife"  and  her  possible  arri 
val,  the  landlady  had  no  hesitation  in  admitting  the 
person  who  claimed  that  title,  stating  she  had  just  come 
from  the  East.  In  the  newspaper  account  it  was  stated 
that  she  proceeded  to  an  immediate  search  of  Realf's 
belongings,  turning  out  his  clothing,  examining,  seizing, 
or  destroying  papers.  She  was  found  at  this  work 
when  the  worn  and  tired  man  returned  to  his  lodgings. 
What  occurred  or  was  said  can  only  be  surmised.  They 

xciii 


remained  in  conversation  for  some  time,  and  she  was 
heard  to  ask  him  to  remain,  but  he  refused,  and  re 
quested  her  to  walk  with  him.  This  she  did  and  they 
soon  after  parted.  After  leaving  her,  he  went  to  the 
rooms  of  a  friend  named  Pomeroy,  remained  there  until 
late,  and  on  leaving  borrowed  a  small  sum.  He  made 
an  effort  on  Sunday  to  find  me,  and  hunted  up  other 
friends.  I  was  in  Nevada.  The  accounts  of  his  pro 
ceedings  on  Sunday  are  confusing,  but  it  is  known  that 
he  purchased  a  small  quantity  of  laudanum  and  chloral 
hydrate.  On  Monday  he  did  not  appear  at  the  mint 
and  sent  no  excuse.  The  Oakland  Times  of  October  30, 
gives  the  following  brief  account  of  his  ending: 

"Monday  morning,  about  half-past  eight  o'clock,  a 
gentleman  called  at  the  Winsor  House  and  inquired  of 
the  proprietor,  Mr.  Wheeler,  for  Col.  S.  F.  Tappan. 
On  being  informed  that  the  latter  gentleman  had  just 
taken  the  train  for  San  Francisco,  he  requested  a  room, 
saying  he  would  wait  Col.  Tappan's  return.  After  tak 
ing  breakfast,  he  retired  to  his  room,  but  soon  returned 
and  requested  paper  and  envelopes,  saying  he  desired 
to  write.  Shortly  after  he  was  seen  to  come  down  stairs 
and  walk  out  into  the  street.  He  was  gone  for  some 
time,  but  returned  and  once  more  went  to  his  room.  In 
the  evening,  about  a  quarter  before  seven  o'clock,  Mr. 
Wheeler  knocked  at  his  door,  for  the  purpose  of  inform 
ing  him  that  the  dinner  hour  was  almost  over.  Receiv 
ing  no  response,  he  went  in  and  found  the  occupant 
apparently  asleep.  Speaking  quite  loudly,  Mr.  Wheeler 
told  him  that  the  dinner  hour  was  almost  past;  also, 
that  Col.  Tappan  had  returned,  and  asked  him  if  he 

xciv 


wished  to  see  him.  He  partially  arose  from  the  bed 
and  replied  that  he  did,  whereupon  Mr.  Wheeler  left 
the  room.  As  he  did  not  afterward  appear,  Col.  Tap- 
pan  concluded  that  he  was  sleeping,  and  refrained  from 
visiting  his  room  till  morning. 

"  The  gentleman  had  registered  as  Richard  Realf.  Not 
desiring  to  disturb  his  rest,  Col.  Tappan  did  not  see  him 
that  night.  The  next  morning,  however,  he  went  to 
Realf's  room  and  knocked.  No  response  being  made, 
he  entered,  and  there,  with  features  as  calm  as  if  he  had 
not  yet  aroused  from  his  sleep,  Richard  Realf  lay  cold 
in  death.  Dr.  L.  M.  Buck  was  immediately  summoned, 
but  Realf  had  too  surely  accomplished  his  aim.  On  the 
table  were  two  bottles,  one  labeled  'Chloral  Hydrate' 
and  the  other  '  Laudanum,'  both  emptied  of  their  con 
tents.  An  inquest  was  held,  and  from  the  testimony 
there  elicited,  it  appeared  that  Realf  had  been  driven  to 
his  death  by  troubles  of  a  domestic  nature.  Two  letters 
which  he  wrote  on  the  day  before  his  death,  directed  to 
Col.  Tappan,  were  produced  for  the  jury's  perusal,  but 
as  they  were  strictly  private  and  confidential  they  were 
not  allowed  to  be  made  public.  The  jury  returned  a 
verdict  in  accordance  with  the  facts  educed,  showing 
that  he  had  taken  laudanum  with  suicidal  intent." 

His  friend  Tappan  had  not,  like  myself,  been  in 
trusted  with  the  facts  and  haunting  fear  that  followed 
Realf,  and  so  was  not  on  the  alert  over  his  somewhat 
strange  conduct  at  the  hotel.  In  a  letter  written  after 
the  death,  Col.  Tappan  says: 

"  He  came  to  my  room  at  the  Winsor  early  one  morn 
ing  after  I  had  left  for  San  Francisco;  it  being  steamer 
day,  I  went  over  much  earlier  than  usual.  On  my  return 

xcv 


in  the  evening  he  was  sleeping,  and  I  concluded  not  to 
wake  him,  but  left  word  at  the  office  to  call  if  Realf 
asked  for  me.  From  what  the  landlord  told  me  I  sup 
posed  Realf  had  been  on  a  '  spree '  and  I  thought  he  did 
not  care  to  see  me  until  all  right  again.  Late  the  ser 
vant  called  and  said  Realf  wanted  'John.'  I  told  him 
to  go  to  Realf  and  come  for  me  if  I  was  wanted.  I 
heard  nothing  more.  In  the  morning  I  went  to  his  bed 
room  and  found  him  dead  and  cold,  leaving  addressed 
to  me  a  poem  and  a  note  explaining  why  he  had  de 
stroyed  himself.  'A  woman  in  the  case.'  The  poem 
was  published  at  the  time.  My  not  seeing  him  the  even 
ing  before  was  a  fatal  error,  and  I  shall  always  regret 
it,  for  had  I  done  so  all  would  have  been  well;  but  a 
strange  fatality  followed  him.  Everything  seemed  to 
conspire  against  him.  I  found  he  had  purchased  at  two 
different  drug  stores  poisons,  deadly  when  combined, 
otherwise  considered  not  dangerous.  He  evidently 
knew  just  what  was  needed  and  how  to  get  them  without 
exciting  alarm.  You  know  the  rest  better  than  I  can 
tell  it'." 

Col.  Realf  left  by  his  bedside  a  poem  in  sonnet  form, 
which  has  been  republished  wherever  the  English 
tongue  is  printed  and  spoken.  He  also  left  the  testa 
mentary  paper  of  which  I  give  the  essential  parts,  with 
another  personal  letter  addressed  to  Col.  Tappan.  The 
will  is  as  follows: 

"Oakland,  CaL,  Oct.  28,  1878. 

"  I,  Richard  Realf,  poet,  orator,  journalist,  workman, 
do  hereby  declare  that  I  have  deliberately  accepted  sui 
cide  as  the  only  final  relief  from  the  incessant  persecu- 

xcvi 


tions  of  my  divorced  wife.  .  .  .  My  poems  and  the 
MS.  of  certain  lectures  to  be  found  scattered  promiscu 
ously  in  my  room,  on  the  table,  and  in  my  trunk,  are  to 
be  put  in  the  possession  of  Gen.  John  F.  Miller,  who  at 
his  discretion  will,  or  will  not,  surrender  them  to  Col.  R. 
J.  Hinton,  of  the  Post.  .  .  .  But  .  .  she  .  . 
who  once  bore  my  name,  and  who  is  now  in  San  Fran 
cisco,  must  on  no  account  be  informed  of  the  residence 
of  my  wife,  who  would  be  in  constant  danger.  .  ; '.', , 
Now,  God  bless  all,  God  pardon  me  as  I  pardon  all.  I 
love  Gen.  John  F.  Miller,  Col.  Tappan,  Col.  Hinton,  Mr. 
Mariner  Kent,  John  Finigan,  E.  Levy,  Col.  J.  J.  Lyon, 
and  many  others. 

"There  is,  or  should  be,  a  tied  lock  of  hair  in  the 
form  of  a  rude  bracelet,  lying  on  the  bathroom  window 
sill  of  my  boarding  house.  I  should  be  glad  to  have  it 
placed  around  my  wrist. 

RICHARD  REALF." 

The  essential  portions  of  the  letter  addressed  to  Col. 
Tappan  are  given  as  follows: 

"  Oakland,  Cal.,  Oct.  28,  1878. 

"  On  Saturday  night  she  broke  in  on  me  at  San  Fran 
cisco.  I  left  the  house,  of  course,  but  last  night  I  went 
back  after  taking  a  dose  of  chloral  hydrate  large  enough, 
I  vainly  thought,  to  give  me  permanent  rest,  and  I  left 
this  morning  before  they  were  up,  and  have  spent  my 
last  penny  in  purchasing  some  laudanum  and  more 
chloral  that  I  shall  use  when  I  have  finished  this  note. 
I  desired  to  see  you  to  make  arrangements  for  repay 
ment  of  my  indebtedness  to  you.  I  can  not  compute 
what  the  mint  owes  me — my  poor  brain  is  in  a  whirl — 
but  I  know  that  I  drew  $20  in  advance  in  the  beginning 
of  the  month." 

xcvii 


Realf  then  stated  some  small  sums  that  he  was  owing, 
gives  Col.  Tappan  authority  to  draw  the  balance  of  his 
month's  pay  at  the  mint  to  settle  these,  and  proceeds: 

14  Please  take  charge  of  all  my  books,  papers,  MSS., 
and  so  forth,  [Col.  Tappan  was  spared  that  task,  as 
the  person  from  whom  Realf  fled  had  seized  them  imme 
diately  upon  being  admitted  to  his  room  by  the  land 
lady];  until  Gen.  Miller  comes  to  the  city.  Then  con 
sult  with  him.  There  should  be  some  money  in  my 
poems,  etc.,  if  published  in  book  form.  I  have  a  dearly 
beloved  one  .  .  .  whose  address  is  to  be  kept  sacred 
ly  private  from  all  eyes  save  Col.  Hinton's  and  Gen. 
Miller's.  My  death  will  almost  kill  her,  and  my  precious 
boy,  but  I  am  utterly  incapable  of  bearing  more  suffer 
ing.  I  wish  some  means  could  be  devised  of  sending 
her  a  little  money.  I  had  hoped  to  have  gotten  her  out 
here  within  a  month.  .  .  .  On  no  account  is  the 
person  calling  herself  my  wife  to  be  permitted  to  ap 
proach  my  remains.  I  should  quiver  with  horror,  even 
in  my  death,  at  her  touch. 

"  I  have  had  heavy  burdens  to  bear,  such  as  have  set 
stronger  men  than  I  reeling  into  hell.  I  have  tried  to 
bear  them  like  a  man,  but  can  endure  no  more.  If  I  am 
weak  and  selfish,  God  will  forgive  me.  Write  to  Gen. 
Miller  at  Sacramento  and  tell  him  how  greatly  I  loved 
him.  Col.  Hinton  is  in  Nevada  with  Senator  Jones.  I 
die  in  peace  with  all  mankind  and  asking  forgiveness 
for  my  own  manifold  trespasses.  .  .  I  do  not  speak 
of  my  love  for  my  parents  and  kindred.  It  is  too  sacred. 
Good-by.  God  bless  you." 

There  remains  but  little  more  to  be  said.  He  was 
buried  on  the  3ist  of  October,  the  services  being  con 
ducted  by  the  Grand  Army  comrades  of  Oakland  and 


San  Francisco.  The  Rev.  J.  K.  Noble,  Chaplain,  offi 
ciated.  Col.  J.  J.  Lyon,  his  personal  friend,  read  the 
poet's  "  Swan  Song,"  "  De  mortuis  nisi  nil  bonum."  The 
remains  were  interred  in  one  of  the  highest  portions  of 
the  Lone  Mountain  Cemetery,  overlooking  and  embrac 
ing  the  Golden  Gate  and  Bay  of  San  Francisco.  The 
poet's  injunction  to  "plant  daisies  at  his  head  and  at 
his  feet,"  was  not  forgotten,  for  a  little  maid  of  four 
teen,  Miss  Daisy  Trueheart,  was  selected  to  meet  that 
wish.  After  the  planting  of  the  daisies  a  dirge  was 
played,  and  the  death  volleys  fired  above  the  grave  of 
the  poet — my  beloved  friend — Richard  Realf ,  who  at  the 
time  of  his  death  was  just  forty-four  years,  four  months, 
and  thirteen  days  old. 

The  Pittsburg  "pursuer"  remained  in  San  Francisco 
for  about  a  month.  During  that  time,  claiming  her 
means  to  be  exhausted,  certain  poems  and  manuscripts 
were  offered  for  sale.  Gen.  John  F.  Miller,  then  in  at 
tendance  on  the  State  Constitutional  Convention,  in 
session  at  Sacramento,  asked  Mr.  Pixley,  of  The  Argo 
naut,  to  negotiate  in  his  own  name  for  the  purchase  of 
such  material  as  she  had  in  possession.  This  Mr.  Pix 
ley  did,  finally  offering  and  paying  $100,  taking  Cathe 
rine's  receipt.  General  Miller  refunded  this  amount  to  the 
editor.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the  material  pur 
chased  was  only  in  part  surrendered,  and  a  large  scrap 
book  containing  some  thirty  poems,  with  the  printed 
report  of  his  finest  lecture,  "  Battle  Flashes,"  are  still 
at  Pittsburg.  As  will  be  seen  in  this  volume  I  have 

xcix 


collected,  with  some  that  are  not  included,  about  two 
hundred  poems.  I  know  of  but  one  literary  friend 
and  admirer  of  Richard  Realf,  George  S.  Cothman, 
of  Irvington,  Indiana,  who  has  seen  her  material. 
With  perhaps  two  exceptions,  I  know  it  is  not  important, 
as  copies  of  every  poem  but  one  are  in  my  possession. 
The  sale  took  place,  and  the  material  obtained,  such  as 
it  was,  was  turned  over  to  me. 

The  effort  to  collect  Realf's  poems  and  other  material 
relating  to  him  has  been  a  task  involving  almost 
unremitting  labor  and  patience  during  the  past  score 
of  years,  and  it  has  not  even  yet  been  fully  accom 
plished.  My  unfortunate  friend  left  nothing  like  a 
personal  collection.  What  was  obtained  from  the 
"seizure"  made  at  San  Francisco,  in  October,  1878,  by 
her  to  escape  whose  pursuit  Realf  committed  suicide, 
were  in  the  worst  possible  condition.  He  had  published, 
however,  in  The  Argonaut,  during  the  few  months  of  his 
residence  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  a  number  of  his  more 
exquisite  sonnets  and  lyrics  ;  none,  I  think,  except 
"My  Lady  at  the  Window"  and  a  portion  of  "Death 
and  Desolation,"  being  new  at  the  date  of  publication, 
but  all  having  been  rewritten  and  more  exquisitely  fin 
ished,  as  careful  comparison  shows.  I  have  adopted 
The  Argonaut  versions  as  far  as  they  go,  and  they  include 
"  Love  Makes  all  Things  Musical,"  and  several  sonnets 
selected  from  "  Symbolism  "  and  "  Christdom,"  which 
in  their  complete  form  were  first  published  in  Harper's, 
The  Atlantic,  Scribner1  s,  and  The  Independent.  The  por- 


tion  of  "  Death  and  Desolation"  referred  to  was  printed 
the  week  preceding  the  author's  suicide,  and  with  the 
third  one  of  the  famous  triplet  of  sonnets,  found  by 
the  side  of  his  deathbed,  the  lines  are  without  doubt 
the  last  from  his  melodious  pen  and  in-seeing  soul. 
I  have  found  no  previous  issue  of  or  reference  to 
"  My  Lady  at  the  Window,"  and  hence  have  reason 
ably  concluded  that  The  Argonaut  print  is  the  first 
publication.  It  may  not  be,  for  the  poet,  in  his  im 
pecunious  wanderings  and  struggles,  was  often  im 
pelled  by  dire  necessity  to  doubtful  procedure  in  the  re 
writing  of  his  poems  and  the  disposing  of  them  again. 
It  is  probable  that  the  failure  of  William  Cullen  Bryant 
to  take  any  notice  of  the  strangely  pathetic  appeal  Realf 
addressed  to  him  early  in  1878  may  have  been  due  to 
the  fact  that  as  editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post 
he  found  that  the  poet  had  formerly  sent  it  two  or 
three  poems  previously  published,  doubtless  receiving 
pay  for  the  same.  Besides  The  Argonaut,  the  original 
publications  in  Harper's  Monthly  and  Weekly,  The 
Atlantic,  Scribner's,  The  Independent,  and  Christian  Union, 
with  the  consent  of  their  publishers,  have  been  drawn 
upon  for  copy.  But  the  larger  number  of  republications, 
and  the  wide  reach  of  the  same,  has  made  the  editorial 
labor  of  gathering,  comparison  and  revision,  a  difficult 
task. 

There  are  two  small  MS.  volumes  in  my  possession, 
one  prepared  by  the  poet  for  his  sister  Sarah,  and  the 
other  for  a  friend  of  his  earliest  New  York  days.  None 

ci 


of  the  poems  they  contain  were  written  later  than  1857, 
and  all  apparently  were  composed  between  the  spring  of 
that  year  and  the  early  months  of  1855.  There  are  a 
few  duplications  in  both  volumes,  and  the  number  of 
poems  and  sonnets  in  both  is  some  fifty  in  all.  I  have 
learned  of  another  and  larger  volume  prepared  in  South 
Carolina  in  1869,  but  have  never  been  able  to  see  it. 
This  manuscript  was  atone  time  in  possession  of  Realf's 
Nemesis,  who  is  reported  to  have  torn  and  mutilated  it. 
Several  poems  are  apparently  lost  by  this  process,  but 
the  rest  have  been  traced  and  are  embraced  in  this 
volume. 

The  boyhood  poems  of  Realf ,  so  prematurely  published 
in  1853,  when  the  poet  was  in  his  seventeenth  year,  are 
not,  with  two  exceptions,  included  in  the  present  collec 
tion.  The  two  referred  to  are  entitled  "  Nobility"  and 
"A  Man  to  His  Word,"  and  they  were  selected  as  the 
most  mature  and  musical.  There  are  several  in 
"Guesses  of  the  Beautiful,"  which  seem  the  foundation 
for  later  poems.  One,  entitled  "The  Sword  Song," 
being  a  plea  for  peace,  is  the  reverse  in  expression  of 
the  martial  lyric  which  so  vigorously  touched  the  tenor 
note  of  war.  Yet  there  are  lines  in  the  boy's  produc 
tion  that  indicate  the  spirit  which  animates  the  war 
lyric.  Realf's  poetic  nature,  like  the  genius  of  Rous 
seau,  was,  as  John  Morley  so  admirably  puts  it,  of  the 
''kind  in  which  the  elements  of  character  remain  mute, 
futile  and  dispersive  particles,  until  compelled  into  unity 
by  the  creative  shock  of  feminine  influences."  Realf 


felt  this  more  than  Jean  Jacques  did,  in  its  most  agree 
able  form.  Far  more  than  by  his  faults  or  follies,  must 
the  influence  of  woman  upon  him  be  judged.  I  have 
been  in  possession  of  hundreds  of  his  letters.  In  no 
one  of  them  have  I  ever  seen  an  unclean  word  or  un 
wholesome  suggestion.  A  pathetic  tenderness  is  a  pre 
vailing  and  purely  personal  trait.  The  passional  expres 
sion,  whenever  perceptible,  is  held  in  restraint  by  the 
cleanest  of  poetic  illustration.  He  certainly  had  the  pla- 
tonic  faculty  in  a  large  degree.  Children  all  loved  him. 
Old  persons  were  drawn  strongly  to  his  side.  Virile  men 
were  all  kind  to  him,  and  no  women,  but  one,  has 
spoken  of  his  memory  otherwise. 

If  the  genius  of  the  poet  is  to  be  counted  as  the 
real  "me"  of  Richard  Realf,  then  it  must  be  acknowl 
edged,  and  without  stint,  that  he  nobly  bore  all  the  woe- 
degrading  consequences  of  his  weakling  acts.  For  it  is 
certain  that  as  his  daily  and  objective  life  became  more 
and  more  subject  to  a  savage  pursuit  and  fierce  jeal 
ousy,  the  soul  of  the  singer  rose  to  nobler  and  loftier 
height  of  expression,  to  more  esoteric  vision,  and  went 
down  to  more  sacred  depths  of  feeling. 

The  poems  of  1854  and  of  the  early  winter  of  1855, 
that  are  preserved,  are  nearly  all  of  an  affectionate 
nature,  called  forth  by  gratitude  and  friendship,  or  the 
feeling  his  departure  for  America  aroused.  After  his 
arrival  in  New  York  and  direct  residence  in  the  Five 
Points  House  of  Industry,  the  love-nature  manifested 
itself  in  broad  human  expression.  In  this  period  of 

ciii 


about  eighteen  months  are  found  such  poems  as  "  The 
Outcast,"  "Mother  Love,"  "  Magdalena,"  "The  Seam 
stress,"  and  others  that  show  the  influence  of  Hood  and 
Mackey,  yet  rise  rapidly  to  power  and  originality  that 
are  all  his  own.  The  first  poem  published  in  America 
was  one  addressed  "  To  England."  It  is  a  piece  of  fierce 
objurgation  and  invective  on  the  French  Alliance  and 
the  Crimean  War.  It  is  written  in  the  resonant  and 
heroic  Alexandrian  measure,  and  attracted  wide  atten 
tion.  Most  of  the  poems  published  by  Realf  during  his 
work  and  residence  in  the  Five  Points  House  were 
printed  in  the  pages  of  the  New  York  Mirror,  a  literary 
weekly  edited  by  Hiram  Fuller.  These  include  the 
poems  called  forth  by  the  peculiar  influences  of  his 
daily  work,  and  by  the  dawn  of  a  new  passion  which 
had  much  to  do  with  fusing  and  molding  his  immediate 
future.  The  "  H.  B."  or  "Harriet,"  to  whom  several 
sonnets  and  exquisite  lyrics  are  addressed,  was  the 
brilliant  daughter  of  a  family  quite  famous  in  the  anti- 
slavery  agitation.  She  was,  I  am  informed,  a  niece  of 
Charles  Burleigh.  The  poem  "I  Remember,"  after 
wards  re-written  and  published  at  Pittsburg  in  the  early 
seventies,  was  of  this  episode.  Another  one  entitled 
"Two,"  was  originally  written  at  this  time,  but  as  re 
written  and  addressed  belongs  naturally  to  the  closing 
year  of  his  life,  and  marks  his  apprehension  of  the  pur 
ity  and  fidelity  of  one  of  the  sweetest  friendships  with 
which  even  he  was  endowed. 

Realf  wrote  also  a  considerable  amount  of  prose  mat- 
civ 


ter,  generally  in  connection  with  the  reform  work  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Pease.  I  have  not  made  strenuous  endeavor 
to  collect  such  materials,  for  his  prose  writings  are  even 
more  widely  scattered  than  his  poems  were.  He  pre 
pared  and  delivered  some  lectures.  One  on  "  Poetry 
and  Labor"  attracted  attention,  and  through  it  I  first 
met  the  poet,  being  at  the  time  Vice-President  of  a 
Young  Men's  Temperance  and  Literary  Club,  which 
met  weekly  in  Botanic  Hall,  New  York,  as  I  have 
already  mentioned.  I  was  commissioned  during  the 
late  fall  of  1855  to  ask  Realf  to  deliver  this  lecture,  and 
the  interview  that  arose  there  began  an  intimacy  which 
continued  till  Realf's  death.  It  has  been  continued  ever 
since,  and  even  more  intimately  on  my  part,  as  I  have 
for  eighteen  years  past  continuously  followed  the  sad 
footsteps  and  deeply  shadowed  life  of  my  gifted  friend. 

A  notable  example  of  Realf's  intellectual  growth  is 
seen  in  the  poem  which  closes  the  collection — "  We  all 
do  carve  our  statues  evermore."  It  was  written  for  and 
delivered  as  a  commencement  address  at  an  academy, 
Warnersville,  New  York,  in  June,  1855.  My  copy  came 
from  the  manuscript  volume  of  a  Dr.  Smith,  of  New 
York  City  and  Elberon,  New  Jersey. 

In  Kansas,  his  arrival  early  in  October,  1856,  was 
immediately  marked  by  the  writing  of  the  "  Defense  of 
Lawrence,"  a  forceful  lyric,  which  at  once,  from  its 
melodiousness  and  vivid,  original  illustrations,  as  well 
historical  significance,  attracted  attention.  It  has  re 
mained  one  of  the  favorites  with  Realf's  admirers. 

cv 


The  poet  left  Kansas  for  New  York,  in  January,  1857, 
and  remained  in  the  East  until  the  last  of  April.  Dur 
ing  the  winter  months  of  1857  his  muse  was  prolific. 
Among  the  finer  sonnets  of  the  period  that  have  been 
preserved  are  the  two,  "In  Peril,"  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Hyatt;  two  under  the  title  of  "  Passion  "  and  "  Silence," 
afterward  re-written;  "In  a  Scrap  Book,"  and  to  his 
artist,  Frank  B.  Carpenter;  others  to  "An  English 

Friend,"  to  "  Mrs.  M ,"  two  to  "  Miss  H B.," 

one  to  "  Thaddeus  Hyatt."  Of  the  same  period  will  be 
found  the  vigorous  descriptive  poem  illustrating  the 
Inauguration  of  James  Buchanan,  March  4th,  1857. 

Under  the  title  of  "Free  State  Lyrics,"  Realf  wrote 
and  sent  to  Kansas  from  New  York  a  series  of  seven 
vigorous  anti-slavery  poems.  There  are  also  a  couple 
of  political  "  skits,"  which,  having  purely  local  force, 
it  was  deemed  unnecessary  to  incorporate  here,  though 
they  show  his  lightness  of  touch.  In  another  vein 
is  a  later  poem,  also  excluded,  directed  against  Wendell 
Phillips,  at  the  time  of  the  latter's  first  delivery,  in  1866, 
of  his  once  famous  oration,  "The  South  Victorious," 
which  excited  the  northern  mind  by  its  trenchant  and 
sarcastic  review  of  the  political  situation  then  existing. 
As  an  example  of  the  sarcastic  personal  tone,  these  two 
stanzas  will  be  of  interest: 

"  I  only  of  the  sons  of  men 

Am  chosen  by  the  Creator; 
My  voice  alone  is  Truth — my  pen 
The  only  revelator; 


Alone  of  all  I  look  with  eyes 

Serene  and  analytic, 
I — Phillips — the  destroyer  of  lies, 

God's  consecrated  critic. 

"What  Moses  was  to  Israel, 

Priest — leader — intercessor. 
Deliverer  from  the  jaws  of  hell, 

And  from  the  stout  oppressor, 
Such  to  this  godless  age  am  I, 

Throned  loftily  above  it, 
Sole  climber  of  its  Sinai, 

Like  to  the  ancient  prophet." 

The  lyric,  "A  Tress  of  Hair,"  relates  to  the  twined 
bracelet  of  blonde  hair  found  on  his  arm  when  dead, 
which  is  fairly  presumed  to  have  been  a  sad  souvenir  of 
the  earliest  incident  of  his  love-life.  It  is  believed  to 
have  been  a  tress  cut  from  the  locks  of  Miss  Noel.  The 
series  known  as  the  "Free  State  Lyrics"  were,  with 
some  others,  published  in  the  Kansas  News,  of  Emporia, 
in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1857. 

Realf's  residence  in  the  South  from  September,  1858, 
to  January,  1860,  offers  no  poetic  flotsam  or  jetsam  to 
my  industrious  search.  Statements  have  been  made 
that  he  wrote,  during  the  period  of  mysticism  which 
landed  him  temporarily  within  the  folds  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  some  poems  of  a  rapt  religious  tone.  I  have 
not  been  able  to  procure  copies  of  these,  but  The  Cath 
olic  Standard,  of  New  Orleans,  is  reported  to  have 
been  the  medium  of  their  publication.  The  paper  long 
since  ceased  issue,  and  no  trace  of  files  or  editors  has 


evil 


been  available.  Nor  are  there  any  fugitive  verses 
found,  after  he  left  the  Jesuit  College  in  October, 
1858,  during  the  months  of  his  wandering  and  lecturing 
in  Alabama  and  Texas.  The  first  poem  between  Spring- 
dale,  1858,  and  Cleveland,  1860,  besides  the  two  sonnets 
mentioned,  is  the  one  denunciatory  of  the  Heenan- 
Sayres  prize  fight,  published  in  Garrison's  "  Liberator" 
during  April,  1860.  The  long  months  spent  among  the 
Ohio  Shakers  the  same  year,  brought  no  poems  for  pub 
lication,  and  not  until  after  the  attack  in  the  streets  of 
Baltimore,  April  19,  1861,  does  the  name  of  Richard 
Realf  appear  in  print,  at  least  as  far  as  I  can  trace 
him.  "Apocalypse  "  is  the  earliest  of  his  striking  series 
of  war  poems,  and  "  My  Sword  Song,"  published  in  the 
Chicago  Tribune  late  in  the  fall  of  1862,  was  the  next  by 
which  he  can  be  known. 

Then  followed,  during  the  breathing  spells  of  military 
activity,  two  fine  poems  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  "  A  Sol 
dier's  Psalm  of  Women,"  published  in  the  Continental, 
(N.  Y.)  June,  1864,  and  "  lo  Triumphe,''  a  superb  and 
ringing  outburst.  The  sonnets  of  the  war  period  include 
three  superb  ones  dedicated  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  two 
to  "A  lady  who  chides  him  for  not  writing,"  (Mrs. 
Cramer,  of  Chicago),  and  another  to  the  same  after 
she  wrote  of  her  infirmity  of  deafness.  The  sonnet 
"Vates,"  written  to  General  Lytle,  author  of  "I  am  Dy 
ing,  Egypt,  Dying,"  is  one  of  his  most  widely  known  ef 
forts,  owing  largely  to  the  tragic  circumstances  following 
its  writing.  Realf  was  in  the  brigade  commanded  by  Gen- 

cviii 


* 


1 1* 


*5 
rfj 


^ 


cix 


eral  Lytle,  serving  as  a  non-commissioned  officer.  Both 
met  as  such  when  duty  permitted,  and  became  warm 
friends.  During  the  forward  movement  which  closed 
for  the  time  in  the  occupancy  of  Chattanooga  and  the 
great  battle  of  Chickamauga,  General  Lytle  made  a 
speech  at  Bridgport,  Alabama.  "  Vates  "  illustrates  its 
effect  on  Realf ,  and  expresses  also  the  admiration  he 
felt.  The  MS.  of  the  sonnet  was  in  the  General's  vest 
pocket,  and  was  penetrated  by  the  bullet  that  killed 
him  during  the  early  morning  hours  of  September  20, 
1863,  when  directly  in  front  of  the  regiment  of  which 
Realf  was  sergeant-major.  It  was  the  second  day  of 
the  Chickamauga  fighting.  The  sonnet  and  a  MS.  copy 
of  "My  Sword  Song,"  were  soaked  red  with  Lytle's 
blood.  Another  poem,  personal  in  character,  beginning, 
"  Not  a  faultless  seeming  face,"  was  addressed  to  some 
lady  correspondent  who  sent  the  soldier  her  photograph. 
It  was  probably  Miss  May  J.  Jordan,  as  1  received  from 
her  the  portrait  of  Realf  in  fatigue  dress  which  is  found  in 
this  volume.  Mention  has  been  made  of  an  Ode  to 
President  Lincoln,  written  and  published  at  Nashville  im 
mediately  after  the  assassination,  but  I  have  never  been 
able  to  trace  it  or  to  find  a  copy.  "  lo  Triumphe  "  was 
evoked  by  the  surrender  at  Appomattox,  and  "  Emanci 
pation  "  followed  the  memorable  ist  of  July,  1863. 
These  poems  were  published  in  Harper 's  and  the  Atlantic 
monthlies,  or  in  the  Harper's  Weekly  and  the  Independent. 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  directly  addressed  any  poems 
to  his  future  wife,  Miss  Graves,  except  an  early  version 

ex 


of  "  Love  Makes  All  Things  Musical;"  but  was  in  the 
habit,  as  she  wrote  me,  of  forwarding  manuscript  copies 
of  all  he  sent  for  publication. 

The  period  following  his  mustering  out  of  the  88th 
Illinois,  in  June,  1865,  and  his  renewal  of  service  in  the 
colored  troops  and  southern  reconstruction  duty,  up  to 
the  date  of  his  leaving  Vicksburg  as  a  citizen  again,  in 
March,  1866,  was  fruitful  in  a  number  of  fine  and  virile 
lyrics,  most  of  them,  however,  touching  on  dominant 
topics  of  the  day.  During  the  summer  of  1865,  "  Hash 
eesh," — certainly  one  of  his  most  remarkable  poems, 
one  in  which  he  touched  the  deepest  of  esoteric  mean 
ings, — was  written.  One  thinks  of  Joaquin  Miller's 
reference  to  Burns,  in  reading  it,  as  "one  who  knelt  a 
stranger  at  his  own  hearth,  seeing  all,  yet  unseen, 
alone."  He  began  also  at  this  time  what  was  designed 
to  be  a  long  and  sustained  poem,  but  a  fragment  of 
which  has  been  preserved. 

Realf's  prose  is  as  marked  in  its  rhetorical  power  and 
finish  as  are  his  poems  for  their  rythm,  melody,  deep 
insight,  and  oftime  spiritual  grandeur.  He  was  gifted 
as  an  orator,  and  his  prose  had  much  of  the  swing, 
affluence,  and  passion  of  his  fervid  speech.  Yet,  as  an 
editorial  writer,  he  became  recognized  for  terse,  direct 
power,  epigrammatic  capacity  and  grasp,  homely  illus 
trative  faculty,  and  a  sharp,  logical  grip  on  facts  and 
statements. 

His  war  letters,  however,  are  to  me  the  most  attract 
ive  and  valuable  of  his  prose.  There  remains  m  my 

cxi 


possession  material  sufficient  to  make  another  volume, 
which  would  be  an  effective  prose  contribution  to  current 
American  literature.  His  lectures  and  orations  were 
almost  overpowering  in  their  eloquent  tension  and  gradu 
ated  power.  His  voice  was  an  exquisite  tenor,  deep 
ening  to  a  light  baritone.  It  was  the  organ  of  an  orator, 
the  timbre  fine,  and  the  tones  musical  and  well  modu 
lated. 

Richard  Realf  looked  like  the  traditional  poet — even 
to  the  day  of  his  death.  His  handsome  head,  face,  and 
body  were  a  fit  receptacle  for  his  handsome  soul  and 
brilliant  mind.  Short  of  stature,  being  not  over  five 
feet  five  in  height,  he  was  very  boyish  looking  when  I 
first  met  him  in  November,  1855.  Time  dims  memories; 
yet,  though  forty-three  years  have  passed,  I  still  remem 
ber  the  figure  that  passed  into  my  life  as  that  of  a  beau 
tiful  Greek,  an  Apollo  that  Phidias  would  have  chiseled 
into  immortal  marble.  The  young  form  was  slight 
and  graceful,  though  not  weak,  hands  and  feet  small 
and  perfectly  formed.  The  rounded,  perfectly  shaped 
head,  sat  well  on  a  fitly  proportioned  neck.  I  recall  the 
ensemble:  brown,  wavy,  and  plentiful  hair,  a  slight, 
silky  moustache,  a  broad,  white  forehead,  perfectly 
shaped  face  and  features.  His  eyes  were  a  fine  hazel, 
deepening  to  a  dark  brown,  or  lightening  to  a  keen 
gray,  his  nose  well-shaped,  broad  at  the  root  ;  finely 
penciled,  arched  eyebrows  and  a  rounded,  sensuous  chin 
completed  the  handsome  face  of  Richard  Realf. 

What  thing  more  remains  to  be  said  of  Richard  Realf. 


Intellectually  and  spiritually,  judging  of  him  as  a  true 
poet,  whatsoever  had  been  the  failures  of  his  objective 
life,  he  remained  true  to  his  finest  moods  and  subject 
ive  ideals.  His  own  measure  of  himself,  as  the  Poet, 
may,  perhaps,  be  found  in  the  following  sonnet,  written 
early  in  his  Pittsburg  days,  and  entitled  by  him 

THE  SINGER. 

O  high,  impalpable  spirit  of  Song  which  dost 

Yield  only,  evermore,  most  palpable  pain, 
It  is  so  hard  and  bitter  that  I  must 

To  all  thy  silent  scantities  attain, 
And  not  thy  sweet  serenities;  so  hard 

To  wear  thy  keen  revealing  crowns,  which  prick 
Till  the  brows  quiver,  and  to  be  debarred 

Thy  kisses,  which  thrill  also  to  the  quick, 
Cleansing  our  lips  for  singing.     But  I  am 

Even  in  dumb  paths  renunciative  content: 
Content  beneath  thy  solemn  oriflamme, 

Albeit  thou  treadest  not  the  hard  ascent 
With  me,  since  only  from  such  dimmest  height 
Can  man  conjecture  of  God's  Infinite! 


cxiii 


POEMS 


SONNETS 


SYMBOLISMS 

ALL  round  us  lie  the  awful  sacrednesses 
Of  babes  and  cradles,  graves  and  hoary  hairs; 

Of  girlish  laughters  and  of  manly  cares; 
Of  moaning  sighs  and  passionate  caresses; 

Of  infinite  ascensions  of  the  soul, 
And  wild  hyena-hungers  of  the  flesh; 

Of  cottage  virtues  and  the  solemn  roll 
Of  populous  cities'  thunder,  and  the  fresh, 

Warm  faith  of  childhood,  sweet  as  mignonette 
Amid  Doubt's  bitter  herbage,  and  the  dear 

Re-glimpses  of  the  early  stars  which  set 
Down  the  blue  skies  of  our  lost  hemisphere, 

And  all  the  consecrations  and  delights 

Woven  in  the  texture  of  the  days  and  nights. 

The  daily  miracle  of  Life  goes  on 

Within  our  chambers,  at  the  household  hearths. 

In  sober  duties  and  in  jocund  mirths; 
In  all  the  unquiet  hopes  and  fears  that  run 

Out  of  our  hearts  along  the  edges  of 


Symbolisms 

The  terrible  abysses;  in  the  calms 

Of  friendship,  in  the  ecstacies  of  love-, 

In  burial-dirges  and  in  marriage-psalms; 
In  all  the  far  weird  voices  that  we  hear; 

In  all  the  mystic  visions  we  behold; 

In  our  souls'  summers  when  the  days  are  clear; 

And  in  our  winters  when  the  nights  are  cold, 
And  in  the  subtle  secrets  of  our  breath, 
And  that  Annunciation  men  call  death. 

O  Earth!  thou  hast  not  any  wind  that  blows 
Which  is  not  music:  every  weed  of  thine 
Pressed  rightly  flows  in  aromatic  wine; 

And  every  humble  hedgerow  flower  that  grows, 
And  every  little  brown  bird  that  doth  sing, 

Hath  something  greater  than  itself,  and  bears 
A  living  Word  to  every  living  thing, 

Albeit  it  hold  the  Message  unawares. 

All  shapes  and  sounds  have  something  which  is  not 

Of  them:  a  Spirit  broods  amid  the  grass; 
Vague  outlines  of  the  Everlasting  Thought 

Lie  in  the  melting  shadows  as  they  pass; 
The  touch  of  an  Eternal  Presence  thrills 
The  fringes  of  the  sunsets  and  the  hills. 

For  ever,  through  the  world's  material  forms, 
Heaven  shoots  its  immaterial;  night  and  day 


Symbolisms 

Apocalyptic  intimations  stray 
Across  the  rifts  of  matter;  viewless  arms 

Lean  lovingly  toward  us  from  the  air; 
There  is  a  breathing  marvel  in  the  sea; 

The  sapphire  foreheads  of  the  mountains  wear 
A  light  within  light  which  ensymbols  the 

Unutterable  Beauty  and  Perfection 
That,  with  immeasurable  strivings,  strives 

Through  bodied  form  and  sensuous  indirection 
To  hint  into  our  dull  and  hardened  lives 

(Poor  lives,  that  can  not  see  nor  hear  aright!) 

The  bodiless  glories  which  are  out  of  sight. 


Sometimes  (we  know  not  how,  nor  why,  nor  whence) 
The  twitter  of  the  swallows'  neath  the  eaves, 
The  shimmer  of  the  light  among  the  leaves, 

Will  strike  up  through  the  thick  roofs  of  our  sense, 
And  show  us  things  which  seers  and  sages  saw 

In  the  gray  earth's  green  dawn:  something  doth  stir 
Like  organ-hymns  within  us,  and  doth  awe 

Our  pulses  into  listening,  and  confer 
Burdens  of  Being  on  us;  and  we  ache 

With  weights  of  Revelation,  and  our  ears 
Hear  voices  from  the  Infinite  that  take 

The  hushed  soul  captive,  and  the  saddening  years 
Seem  built  on  pillared  joys,  and  overhead 
Vast  dove-like  wings  that  arch  the  world  are  spread, 


Insufficiency 

He,  by  such  raptnesses  and  intuitions, 

Doth  pledge  his  utmost  immortality 

Unto  our  mortal  insufficiency, 
Fettered  in  grossness,  that  these  sensual  prisons, 

Against  whose  bars  we  beat  so  tired  wings, 
Avail  not  to  ward  off  the  clear  access 

Of  His  high  heralds  and  interpretings; 
Wherefore,  albeit  we  may  not  fully  guess 

The  meaning  of  the  wonder,  let  us  keep 
Clean  channels  for  the  instincts  which  respond 

To  the  Unutterable  Sanctities  that  sweep 
Down  the  far  reaches  of  the  strange  Beyond, 

Whose  mystery  strikes  the  spirit  into  fever, 

And  haunts,  and  hurts,  and  blesses  us  for  ever. 


INSUFFICIENCY 


OTHAT  some  Poet,  with  awed  lips  on  fire 
Of  the  Ineffable  Altars,  would  arise, 
And  with  his  consecrated  songs  baptize 
Our  souls  in  harmony,  that  we  might  acquire 

Insight  into  the  essential  heart  of  Life, 
Beating  with  rythmic  pulses.     There  is  lost, 
In  the  gross  echoes  of  our  brawling  strife, 

6 


Insufficiency 

Music  more  rare  than  that  which  did  accost 
Shakspeare's  Imagination,  when  it  swept 

Nearest  the  Infinite.     Our  spirits  are 
All  out  of  tune;  our  discords  intercept 

The  strains  which,  like  the  singing  of  a  star, 
Stream  downward  from  the  Holies,  to  attest, 
Beyond  our  jarring  restlessnesses,  Rest. 

n. 

I  think  our  ideal  aims  will  still  elude 

Our  eager  wishes — that  we  still  shall  miss 
The  elemental  blessedness  which  is 

Incorporate  somewhere  in  our  humanhood — 
That  still  the  unsolved  riddles  of  the  Sphinx 

Will  vex  us  with  an  inward  agony — 

That  still  within  our  daily  meats  and  drinks 

Will  lurk  an  unknown  poison,  until  we 

Learn  more  of  reverence  for  the  Soul  of  Man! 

O  friends,  I  fear  we  do  but  desecrate 
The  sanctity  of  Being — do  but  fan 

The  cruel  fires  of  slowly-dying  Hate, 
Instead  of  kindling  hero-lives  to  dare 
Greatly  for  Man's  hope  against  Man's  despair. 

in. 

Our  plummets  are  too  short  to  fathom  well 
The  deep  things  of  existence.     Unto  pride 


Insufficiency 

And  unto  bitterness  it  is  denied 
To  know  the  sacred  temples  wherein  dwell 

The  oracles  and  angels.     We  want  first, 
For  the  interpretation  of  the  land, 

Love,  whereby  Faith,  the  seer  of  Truth,  is  nursed: 
And  Sympathy,  by  which  to  understand 

The  faces  of  our  fellows.     What  we  need 
Is  dew  on  our  dry  natures — sustenance 

For  the  starved  spirit — not  the  outward  greed. 
We  lean  too  much  on  palpable  circumstance, 

Too  little  on  impalpable  souls,  to  attain 

God's  morrows  for  our  yesterdays  of  pain. 

IV. 

We  want  more  depth,  more  sweetness,  less  reliance 

On  visible  forms  and  ceremonial  laws; 

Less  venomous  jeering,  at  the  ingrained  flaws 
"Which  mar  our  brother's  beauty;  less  defiance, 

Less  clannish  spite,  less  airy  sciolism, 
Less  incense  burned  at  worldly  altars,  less 

Chuckling,  less  supercilious  criticism; 
More  warmth,  more  meekness,  and  true  lowliness. 

More  human  moisture  in  our  lives,  more  smell 
Of  flowers  about  our  gardens,  better  sense 

That  something  worthy  and  acceptable 
May  lie  beyond  the  walls  with  which  we  fence 

Our  isolation  round;  excluding  thus 

The  high  ones  who  would  fain  have  speech  of  us. 

8 


Insufficiency 


It  is  not  by  repressions  and  restraints 

Men  are  withheld  from  imminent  damnation, 

But  by  the  spiritual  affiliation 
Of  love  with  love.     Our  vehemence  acquaints 

Heaven  with  our  weakness,  chiefly.     O,  we  must 
Lower  our  proud  voices,  front  less  haughtily 

The  inexorable  years;  learn  ampler  trust 
In  God's  child,  Man,  with  God's  eternity 

Standing  behind  him,  before  we  may  quell 
Our  riotous  devils  strongly,  or  drown  out 

The  conflagrations  which  are  lit  of  hell; 
Or,  panoplied  in  wisdom,  put  to  rout 

The  insurrectionary  ranks  of  lies 

Which  hang  like  murder  on  our  best  emprise. 

VI. 

Lo,  this  is  Christdom!     This  same  blessed  earth, 
From  its  clear  coronals  of  the  air  we  breathe, 
Down  to  the  primal  granite  underneath 

Its  mountains,  hath  had  very  notable  birth 
Out  of  Judaic  insufficiency. 

But  what  are  we  but  unbelieving  men, 
Who  put  not  Christ  in  our  philosophy, 

And  only  call  our  brothers  bretheren 

On  Sabbaths  merely  ?     Tooth  for  tooth  is  good, 


Insufficiency 

We  think  on  week-days — the  old  rigor  that 
With  literal  eye  for  eye  and  blood  for  blood, 

Through  all  the  centuries  striveth  to  tread  flat 
The  immemorial  hill  from  which  alone 
We  dare  lift  steady  eyes  to  the  unknown. 

VII. 

What  shall  we  say  then  ? — That  our  brother's  crimes 

Augur  our  own  diseases  ;  that  his  hurts 

Imply  our  shames;  that  the  same  bond  engirts 
Alike  the  man  who  lapses  and  who  climbs; 

That  formulas  and  credos,  when  divorced 
From  the  great  spirit  of  all-pervading  ruth, 

Leave  still  the  lean  and  thirsty  world  athirst 
For  the  deep  heart  and  blessedness  of  truth; — 

That  in  the  noblest  there  is  something  base 
And  in  the  meanest  noble;  that  behind 

The  sensual  darkness  of  the  human  face 
Not  to  be  quenched  by  any  adverse  wind, 

Enough  of  God's  light  flickers  for  a  sign 

That  our  best  possible  is  His  divine. 

VIII. 

Here's  room  for  poets!     Here  is  ground  for  seers! — 
Broad  leagues  of  acres  waiting  for  the  seed 
Whose  recompensing  sheaves  of  song  shall  breed, 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  garnering  years, 
Harvests  of  prodigal  plenty.     O  ye  lips, 

10 


My  Slain 

Anointed  for  the  proper  utterance 

Of  what  things  lie  in  worthy  fellowships! 

O  eyes  to  which  the  dread  significance 
Of  life's  grand  mystery  is  visible! 

For  lack  of  ye  the  poor  earth  perishes — 
The  patient  earth,  so  very  beautiful; 

The  comely  earth,  so  clung  with  noble  stress; 
Aching  for  God  unutterably,  and  wet 
With  most  immortal  tears  and  bloody  sweat. 


MY  SLAIN 

THIS  sweet  child  which  hath  climbed  upon  my  knee, 
This  amber-haired,  four-summered  little  maid, 
With  her  unconscious  beauty  troubleth  me, 

With  her  low  prattle  maketh  me  afraid. 
Ah,  darling!  when  you  cling  and  nestle  so, 

You  hurt  me,  tho  you  do  not  see  me  cry, 

Nor  hear  the  weariness  with  which  I  sigh 
For  the  dear  babe  I  killed  so  long  ago. 
I  tremble  at  the  touch  of  your  caress; 

I  am  not  worthy  of  your  innocent  faith, 
I  who,  with  whetted  knives  of  worldliness 

Did  put  my  own  child-heartedness  to  death — 
Beside  whose  grave  I  pace  forever  more, 
Like  desolation  on  a  ship-wrecked  shore. 


My  Slain 

There  is  no  little  child  within  me  now, 

To  sing  back  to  the  thrushes,  to  leap  up 
When  June  winds  kiss  me,  when  an  apple  bough 

Laughs  into  blossom,  or  a  buttercup 
Plays  with  the  sunshine,  or  a  violet 

Dances  in  the  glad  dew — alas!  alas! 

The  meaning  of  the  daisies  in  the  grass 
I  have  forgotten;  and  if  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
It  is  not  with  the  blitheness  of  a  child, 

But  with  the  bitter  sorrow  of  sad  years. 
O  moaning  life  with  life  irreconciled! 

O  backward-looking  thought!  O  pain!  O  tears! 
For  us  there  is  not  any  silver  sound 
Of  rhythmic  wonder  springing  from  the  ground. 

Woe  worth  the  knowledge  and  the  bookish  lore 

Which  makes  men  mummies;  weighs  out  every  grain 

Of  that  which  was  miraculous  before, 

And  sneers  the  heart  down  with  the  scoffing  brain. 

Woe  worth  the  peering,  analytic  days 
That  dry  the  tender  juices  in  the  breast, 
And  put  the  thunders  of  the  Lord  to  test 

So  that  no  marvel  must  be,  and  no  praise, 
Nor  any  God  except  Necessity. 

What  can  you  give  my  poor  starved  life  in  lieu 
Of  this  dead  cherub  which  I  slew  for  ye? 

Take  back  your  doubtful  wisdom,  and  renew 
My  early  foolish  freshness  of  the  dunce, 
Whose  simple  instinct  guessed  the  heavens  at  once. 
12 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN— 1863 

i. 

IT  touches  to  the  quick  the  spirit  of  one 
Who  knows  what  Freedom  is;  whose  eyes  have  seen 
The  crops  thou  sowest  ripen  in  the  sun; 

Whose  feet  have  trod  the  fields  wherein  men  glean 
The  harvests  of  thy  lonely  hours,  when  thou 

Didst  grapple  with  the  Incarnate  Insolence 

Lording  the  Land  with  impious  pretense, 
And  very  bravely  on  its  arrogant  brow 

Didst  set  thy  sealed  abhorrence — when  he  hears 
The  glib  invectives  which  men  launch  at  thee, 

Beloved  of  Peoples,  crowned  in  all  thy  years 
Nestor  of  all  our  chiefs  of  Liberty, 

As  if  thou  wert  some  devil  of  crafty  spell 

Let  loose  to  lure  the  unwary  unto  hell. 

n. 
But  thou  art  wiser;  thy  clear  spiritual  sense 

Threading  our  tangled  darkness,  seest  how 
The  equilibriums  of  Omnipotence 

Poise  the  big  worlds  in  safety.     Disavow 
And  jeer  thee  as  men  will,  stab,  howl,  and  curse, 

They  can  not  blur  the  glory  of  thy  fame, 

Nor  pluck  the  noble  memories  of  thy  name 

13 


Abraham  Lincoln — 1863 

From  the  glad  keeping  of  the  Universe, 
Quickened  with  the  conjunction  of  thy  Spirit. 

For  lo!  thou  art  Our's  alone — and  yet  thou  art 
Nature's,  Mankind's,  the  Age's!     We  inherit 

Joint  treasures  from  thee;  but  we  stand  apart 
From  all  the  earth  in  bitter  trespasses 
'  Gainst  thee  and  thy  great  throb  of  tenderness. 

in. 

Nathless,  let  not  our  cold  ingratitude 

Make  sad  the  soul  within  thee:  in  the  years 

When  the  full  meanings  of  our  brotherhood 
Roll  their  high  revelations  round  the  spheres, 

The  solemn  passion  of  thy  life  shall  be 
A  wonder  and  a  worship  unto  all, 
Whose  eyes  behold  the  Apocalyptical 

Transfiguration  of  Humanity. 

Meanwhile,  because  thy  recompense  is  pain, 

Weary  not  thou;  invisible  lips  shall  kiss 

The  trouble  from  thy  heart  and  from  thy  brain, 

In  all  the  days  of  thy  self-sacrifice, 

Thy  blessed  hurts  being  still  thy  amplest  wage, 
Thou  Archimedes  of  Love's  leverage. 


TO   A    LADY   AFFLICTED    WITH    DEAF 
NESS 

WHY  what  a  sweet  and  sacred  recompense, 
Dear  friend,  doth  reinforce  thy  meagre  loss! 
Because,  allbeit  upon  thy  outward  sense 

Fainter  than  naked  feet  on  woodland  moss, 
The  blessed  sounds  of  the  blessed  world  do  fall, 
The  fine  ear  of  the  soul  is  so  intense 
With  its  quick  nerve,  thou  apprehendest  all 

The  multitudinous  voices  which  arise 
From  the  singing  earth  unto  the  seeing  stars — 

Its  low  sad  minors,  its  triumphant  cries, 
The  lusty  shouting  of  its  conquerors, 

The  slaves'  hushed  wail,  the  tender  mother's  sighs: 
Through  all,  thy  listening  spiritual  instincts  hark 
God  luring  his  poor  children  from  the  dark. 


IN    PERIL 


BECAUSE  of  the  bleak  anguish  of  her  cry. 
When  our  two  natures  tore  themselves  apart, 
Like  a  hell-horror  crashing  through  my  heart, 
Wiping  God's  stars  from  out  his  purple  sky, 
I  think  I  can  the  better  testify 

15 


In  Peril 

Unto  the  terrible  smiting  stroke  which  clave 
Thro'  the  fine  fibers  of  your  delicate  brain, 
When,  with  your  lashes  trickling  drops  of  rain, 

For  the  last  time  your  shivering  lips  you  gave 
To  his,  for  kisses  and  for  comfortings. 
O  deep,  deep  woman  heart!     O  coiling  pain 

Of  blackened  silence,  leaden  as  the  grave; 
O  weary  stricken  dove,  O  drooping  wings, 
Christ  hold  thee  in  thy  dark  of  shudderings. 


ii. 


Be  strong — be  strong!     I  think  that  He  who  held 

His  Son's  soul  in  his  Soul's  Gethsemane, 
Who  smote  the  royal  first-born,  and  compelled 

The  maddened  waters  of  the  moaning  sea 

To  crouch  in  awe  at  his  prophetic  knee, 
And  harnessed  his  own  fiery  cloud  of  stars, 

To  march  before  his  chosen  humanity — 
I  say  I  think  the  sweep  of  scimetars 

He  will  ward  off  from  him  who  loveth  thee. 
O  many  limbs  must  yawn  with  ghastly  scars 

Before  a  godless  hand  may  ever  touch 
This  Moses  of  an  Israel  that  is  free. 

Therefore — O  trembler!  grieve  not  overmuch 
For  him  who  yet  shall  clasp  thee  tenderly. 


16 


LOVE'S    MARVEL 

I   THINK  that  Love  makes  all  things  musical, 
As,  melted  in  the  marvels  of  its  breaths, 
Our  barren  lives  to  blossoming  lyrics  swell, 

And  the  new  births  shine  upward  from  old  deaths, 
Witching  the  world  with  wonder.     Thus  to-day 

Watching  the  crowding  people  in  the  street, 

I  thought  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing  feet 
Moved  to  a  delicate  sense  of  rhythm  alway, 
And  that  I  heard  the  yearning  faces  say, 

"  Soul,  sing  me  this  new  song!"    The  Autumn  leaves 
Throbbed  subtly  to  me  an  immortal  tune; 
And  when  a  warm  shower  wet  the  roofs  at  noon, 

Low  melodies  seemed  to  slide  down  from  the  eaves, 
Dying  delicious  in  a  dreamy  swoon. 


VIOLA'S  SONG 

DO  you  remember  how,  a  day  ago, 
You  broke  into  a  mellow  Tuscan  hymn  ? 
And  how  your  spirit's  passionate  overflow, 
In  waves  of  living  jubilance  did  grow 

And  greaten  all  around  you,  till  the  dim 
And  shadowy  parlor  trembled  to  and  fro 

With  shining  splendors,  as  though  the  cherubim 

17 


Decoration  Day 

Waved  their  white  wings  above  it?    O,  dear  tones 
Of  that  rare  singing!     O,  the  subtle  voice 

Which  shook  me  to  the  marrow  of  my  bones, 
And  clenched  and  held  me  till  I  had  no  choice 

Save  in  bowed  reverence  to  follow  it 

Along  its  starry  pathway — thrilled  and  lit 
With  radiance  of  far  incandescent  thrones. 


DECORATION   DAY 

THANK  God  for  Liberty's  dear  slain;  they  give 
Perpetual  consecration  unto  it, 
Quick'ning  the  clay  of  our  insensitive 

Dull  natures  with  the  awe  of  infinite, 

Sun-crowned  transfiguration,  such  as  fit 
On  the  solemn-brooding  mountains.     O,  the  dead, 

How  they  do  shame  the  living;  how  they  warn 
Our  little  lives  that  huckster  for  the  bread 

Of  peace,  and  tremble  at  the  world's  poor  scorn, 
To  pick  their  steps  among  the  flowers,  and  tread 

Daintily  soft  where  the  raised  idols  are, 
Prone  with  gross  dalliance  where  the  feasts  are  spread, 

When  most  they  should  strive  forth,  and  flash  afar 

Light,  like  the  streaming  of  heroic  war. 


iS 


PATIENCE 

THE  swift  years  bring  but  slow  development 
Of  the  worlds  majestic;  for  Freedom  is 
Born  grandly  orb'd,  as  a  solid  continent, 

Layer  upon  layer,  from  chaos  and  the  abyss, 
Shoulders  its  awful  granite  to  the  light, 

Building  the  eternal  mountains,  on  whose  crests, 

Pinnacled  in  the  intense  sapphire,  rests 
The  brooding  calmness  of  the  Infinite. 

But  we,  whirled  round  and  round  in  heated  gusts 
Of  eager  indignation,  think  to  weigh 

Against  God's  patience  our  gross  griefs  and  lusts 
Like  foolish  Jonah  before  Nineveh 

(O  world-wide  symbol  of  his  vanished  gourd!) 

Expostulating  gravely  with  the  Lord. 


PASSION 

I    CLENCH  my  arms  about  your  neck,  until 
The  knuckles  of  my  hands  grow  white  with  pain, 
And  my  swollen  muscles  quiver  with  the  strain, 
And  all  the  pulses  of  my  life  stand  still. 

I  say  I  clench  so.     Ah!  you  can  not  tear 
Yourself  away  from  my  immortal  grip 
Of  forlorn  tenderness  and  salt  despair, 

19 


Silence  Still 

And  child-like  sorrowing  after  fellowship, 

And  wolf-like  hunger  of  the  famishing  heart; 
For  not  until  my  sundering  fibers  crack, 

And  my  torn  limbs  from  their  wrenched  sockets  start, 
O  darling,  darling!  will  I  yield  me  back 

To  that  lone  hell  whence,  shuddering  through  and 
through, 

With  one  wild  tiger-leap  I  sprang  to  you. 


SILENCE  STIIX 

BUT  do  not  heed  my  trembling;  do  not  shrink 
Because  my  face  is  haggard,  and  my  eyes 
Blaze  hot  with  thirstiness  as  they  would  drink 

Your  wells  up  to  their  ultimate  supplies. 
I  will  not  hurt  you,  darling!  I  will  be 

More  tender  than  our  Mothers  were  to  us 
In  our  first  days  of  helpless  infancy. — 

And  if  I  kiss  you  thus,  and  thus,  and  thus; 
And  fling  toward  you — so — and  make  you  wreathe 
Nigher  and  nigher,  until  you  can  not  breathe 

Save  by  my  sufferance, — I  will  not  wet 
Your  dead  white  forehead  with  a  single  stain 
(I  will  watch  so)  from  all  the  purple  rain 

Of  my  great  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 

20 


A  YEAR  AGO 


A  YEAR  ago  two  thin  and  delicate  hands 
Trembled  within  my  passionate  parting  clasp, 
Two  dreamy  eyes  seemed  spiritual  overmuch, 
And  one  white  brow  my  hot  lips  loved  to  touch, 
Burned  as  if  belted  by  the  securing  bonds 
That  crown  our  crowns  of  sorrow.     Then  she  spoke: 
"  God  keep  you  " — but  a  sudden  shivering  gasp 
Splintered  the  rest  to  silence  with  one  stroke. 
O,  t'was  well  feigned!  the  exquisite,  audible  sign, 
The  mute  beseeching  of  the  bloodless  lips 
The  paleness  reaching  to  the  finger  tips, 
And  the  deep,  mournful  splendor  of  the  eye. 
God!  but  her  rare  skill  smote  me  as  a  cry 
Of  those  who  perish  amid  sinking  ships. 

II. 

Now,  let  this  pass!  O,  woman,  there  shall  come 
In  the  deep  midnights,  when  thy  pulses  throb, 
And  something  startles  thee  like  a  low  sob, 
A  shining  grandeur  that  shall  strike  thee  dumb — 
The  glory  of  a  great  white  martyrdom! 
And  nothing  save  the  old  clock  on  the  wall, 
Whose  strokes  shall  crash  like  awful  thunder  then, 
Shall  answer  thee  when  thou  shall  wildly  call 

21 


David  Swing 

On  the  strange  past  to  speak  to  thee  again 

With  one  voice  more!  but  thou  shalt  grope  and  crawl 

Along  wet  burial  crypts,  and  thy  large  tears, 

Scorched  with  the  heat  of  thy  strong  agony, 

Shall  blister  on  the  dead  hopes  of  old  years, 

Who  shall  rise  up  to  glare  and  mock  at  thee. 


DAVID  SWING 

FOR  souls  like  thine,  coined  of  creative  fire, 
Electric  with  quick  instincts — it  is  hard 
To  endure  the  fool,  the  Pharisee,  the  liar, 

The  scoffs  and  jeers  of  little  lives  on  guard 
Against  the  lifting  Savior;  terrible 

To  tread  most  sovran  indignation  down 
With  still  more  sovran  pity — to  annul 

The  wrong  as  though  it  were  not,  and  to  crown 
Man-hating  with  Christ-loving;  bitter  as  death 
To  keep  calm  lips  closed  over  burning  breath, 

And  make  the  clenched  fist  reverence  the  will 
That  holds  the  tingling  fibers  in  restraint. 

Yet  only  through  such  pain  may  we  fulfil 
The  measure  of  the  hero  and  the  saint. 

Truth's  self  is  Truth's  own  triumph  and  success. 
Therefore  wait  thou:  Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see 


David  Swing 

The  marvel  of  his  everlastingness. 

Rooted  in  God's  immutability; 
He  whose  true  soul  is  reverent  and  wise 

To  read  the  lesson  of  the  Universe, 
That  not  in  crowd  nor  ritualities, 

Nor  the  proud  pomps  with  which  men  bless  and  curse, 
Lie  liberty  and  mastery,  but  alone 
In  that  ineffable  Christ  whom  we  disown, 

Needeth  no  human  succor — for  he  is 
Girt  all  about  with  the  Invisible. 

Wherefore,  albeit  thine  enemies  howl  and  hiss, 
Remain  thou  silent,  till  thine  hour  is  full. 


Until  thine  hour  is  full.     For  there  shall  come 

A  moment  when,  with  clarified,  soft  eyes, 
Men  shall  behold  thy  stature,  and  stand  dumb, 

Stricken  with  large  and  beautiful  surprise. 
But  this  is  not  thy  glory;  the  broad  gaze 

Of  seeing  natures,  the  sweet  sobs  and  shouts 
Of  glad,  freed  thralls  who  in  new-throbbing  praise 

Do  penance  for  the  evil  of  old  doubts — 
The  home  in  good  men's  hearts,  the  wider  faith, 
The  benedictions  poured  along  thy  path, 

The  prayers  that  run  like  couriers  at  thy  side, 
The  dear  beliefs  of  childhood's  innocence — 

These  are  as  naught:  that  thou  hast  justified 
Thy  soul  with  love,  is  thy  soul's  recompense. 

23 


IN   A  SCRAP  BOOK 

HERE,  gathered  from  all  places  and  all  time, 
The  waifs  of  wisdom  and  of  folly  meet. 
High  thoughts  that  awe  and  lilting  words  that  chime 

Like  Sabbath  bells  heard  in  far  vallies  sweet; 
Quaint  fancies,  musical  with  dainty  rhyme 

Like  the  soft  patter  of  an  infant's  feet;t 
And  laughter  radiant  as  summer  skies, 

The  genial  sunshine  of  the  happy  heart; 
And  giant  hopes  looking  out  from  human  eyes, 

With  thrilling  hymns  that  make  the  quick  tears  start, 
Are  here,  in  garlands  of  strange  fantasy, 

To  catch  the  careless  passer's  casual  look, 

And  show,  within  the  limits  of  a  book, 
Unto  him  his  life's  own  large  epitome. 


TO  FRANK   B.    CARPENTER,  ARTIST, 

After  seeing  his  portrait  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher 

IT  was  thy  soul's  deep  reverence  earned  thee  this, 
And  not  thy  painter's  cunning, — the  true  eye, 
Bathed  in  the  light  of  shining  prophecy, 
To  understand  the  spiritual  influences 
Wherefrom  do  spring  the  wonderful  mysteries 

24 


To  an  English  Friend 

Of  the  high  speech  of  features!     Else,  whence  came 
The  silent  subtle  aroma  that  grows 
Like  the  utter  sweetness  of  a  perfect  rose 
To  the  hearts  of  the  beholders,  and  the  flame 
Clasping  his  brows  with  the  old  tenderness, 
So  that  once  more  we  part  our  lips  to  bless 
The  yearning  face  we  look  on,  and  pass  forth 
Watching  the  glorious  bountiful  sun  caress 
The  people  swarming  on  the  rugged  earth. 


TO   AN   ENGLISH   FRIEND 

STAND  still,  and  let  me  read  thee  as  thou  art! 
O,  like  a  spiritual  hearted  child,  who  stands 
Watching  a  dying  sunset  by  the  sea, 
When  blazing  awe  hath  stricken  his  lips  apart, 
And  crept,  like  thunder,  through  the  clenched  hands 
With  which  he  clutched  at  that  God's  prophecy, 
And  missed  it:  so  stands  shivering  on  the  sands, 
Staring  his  reddened  eyes  into  the  night, 
Straining  his  splintered  heartstrings  till  he  dies — 
So  does  the  hunger  of  his  famishing  eyes 
Glare  toward  the  line  of  overwhelming  light 
That  stunned  thee  into  speechlessness;  and  yet 
It  stands  and  waits  in  the  eternities, 
To  clasp  thee  sudden  when  thy  cheeks  are  wet. 

25 


TO   MRS.   M ,    OF  ENGLAND 

On  the  birth  of  her  first  child 

WHEN  you  lay  shivering  with  the  great  excess 
Of  mother-marvel  at  your  child's  first  cry; 

When  you  looked  up  and  saw  him  standing  by, 
Leaning  the  strong  unspeakable  utterness 

Of  all  his  soul  upon  you;  when  you  smiled, 
And  your  weak  lips  strove  mightily  to  frame 
To  a  new  song  your  new  life's  oriflamme, 

And  presently  the  infinite  words,  "  Our  child," 
Made  a  most  musical  murmur,  as  of  breath 

Breathed  by  a  poet's  spirit — did  you  know 

The  babe's  slight  moan,  that  seemed  so  faint  and  low, 
Was  God's  voice  speaking  from  dear  Nazareth, 

Covering  you  up  with  that  white  light  that  lay 

On  Mary  and  her  young  Christ  in  the  hay  ? 


TO  A  LADY  ON   CHIDING   ME   FOR 
NOT  WRITING 


IF  still  I  hold  my  peace,  and  stand  aloof 
From  giving  thee  tongue-worship,  it  is  not 
Because  my  nature  hath  grown  passion  proof: 
In  truth  I  think  my  heart's  blood  is  as  hot 

26 


To  a  Lady  on  Chiding  me  for  not  Writing 

As  when,  foreseeing  my  spirit  would  else  rot, 
Heaven  purged  me  with  hell's  sulphur;  only  now, 
Leaning  here,  with  my  sword  drawn,  on  my  shield, 
Ribbed  with  the  strokes  of  battle's  deadliest  hate, 
I  have  no  leisure  to  unbend  my  brow 
Into  the  mood  of  sonnets!      Ay,  and  thou — 
Though  the  deep  song  be  nevermore  revealed, 
And  thine  own  anthem  perish  uncreate — 
Wilt  deem  me  manlier  that  I  do  not  yield 
The  stern  hour  unto  music:  therefore,  wait! 


II. 


Wait!  it  is  better  so.     Some  day,  perhaps, 

The  Word  within  may  find  an  utterance. 

Only  not  now  while  God's  great  thunder-claps 

And  still  small  voices  of  vast  covenants 

Are  talking  with  my  soul.     I  must  be  dumb 

When  Heaven  speaks,  and  my  hungry  eyes  do  glance 

Into  the  deeps  of  Being,  tho'  my  heart 

Break  with  its  bursting  silence. — O,  dear  friend, 

I  surely  trust  the  Pentecost  will  come, 

When  these  mute  yearnings  of  my  life  shall  start 

Into  a  living  lyric,  that  shall  blend 

Music  with  all  my  pulses,  and  ascend 

Calmly  and  purely  the  celestial  hope — 

A  belt  of  fire  across  my  horoscope. 

27 


THE  TRUTH 

THE  great  world  grows  in  glory;  near  and  far 
God's  blinding  splendors  blaze  upon  our  eyes; 

And  thunders,  as  of  newer  Sinais, 

Crash  triple  grandeurs  of  deep  prophecies; 
And  large  loves,  white  as  Christ's  own  Angels  are, 

Fling  shining  sweetnesses  on  all  the  spheres; 
And  calm  vast  hymns,  high  as  the  morning  star, 

Throb  throneward  from  the  green  isles  of  the  seas. 
Yea,  all  the  days  are  as  a  Mother's  tears — 

Brimfull  with  unsaid  meanings.     Therefore  now 
I  will  stretch  forth  my  yearning  hands  to  seize 

The  luminous  Truth,  which*,  girdled  on  my  brow, 
Shall  fringe  my  soul  with  flaming  sanctities, 

The  early  promise  of  an  ancient  vow. 


TO   MISS   H B- 


I    HAVE  been  homeless  such  a  weary  while; 
Have  lived  so  long  upon  Love's  scattered  crumbs, 
Strewn  in  the  outer  alleys  of  the  world; 
My  naked  heart  has  been  so  dashed  and  whirled 
From  side  to  side  in  bitter  martyrdoms, 
Made  all  the  bitterer  by  the  lean,  sad  smile 

28 


To  Miss  H B- 

Shivering  upon  my  lips,  that  this  new  feast 
Whereto  I  am  bidden  as  chief  banqueter, 
And  whereat,  though  my  speech  be  of  the  least, 
I  may  bend  on  her  my  great,  greedy  eyes, 
Walk  by  her  side,  a  reverent  listener — 
Silent,  'till  all  my  own  soul's  silences 

Burst  into  blossoming  music:  'tis  too  deep, 
Too  very  blessed!     Heart — be  still  and  weep. 


I  held  her  name  between  me  and  the  sun 

And  then  I  staggered  downward  to  my  knees; 

O,  blessed  Christ!  how  my  brain  reeled  and  spun 
When,  like  a  flash  from  the  Eternities, 

The  blinding  blaze  of  burning  glory  clung 
Around  the  luminous  letters,  till  the  name 
Shot  outward  into  breathing  life,  a  flame 

With  Godlike  splendor,  as  a  cloven  tongue 

Of  awful  Pentecost! 

O  Holiest 
Of  all  the  holy!  O,  great  Infinite 

Who  thro'  all  works  still  workest  all  things  best; 
I  yield  this  name  unto  thee;  pure  and  white 
Keep  it,  dear  Father!     Keep  it  in  Thy  sight — 

Keep  it  for  me  when  my  soul  can  not  rest. 

29 


IN   NOTRE   DAMK 

THEY  look  down  from  their  places  on  the  wall 
With  such  transfigurings  in  their  steadfast  eyes, 
You  see  a  sweet  ascending  glory  rise 

About  their  foreheads  apostolical, 
And  hear  such  wondrous  spiritual  replies 

From  those  meek  lips  of  patient  sorrow  fall, 
You  kneel  down  in  the  light  that  glorifies 

The  aisles  of  silent  worshipers,  and  thrill 
Beneath  the  anointed,  soothing  hand  that  lies 
On  the  moaning  surge  of  your  dark  agonies 

Born  of  the  lapses  of  the  heart  and  will 

From  G.od's  high  levels  to  man's  low  tracts  of  ill; 
And  pass  forth  quivering  with  the  soft  surprise 

That  touched  you  in  the  whisper,  "  Peace,  be  still." 


TO  THADDEUS   HYATT 

WHEN  God  spake  unto  Moses,  and  the  crags 
Of  Sinai  shook  with  thunder,  do  you  think 
The  gaping  Jews  upon  the  river  brink, 
Stripping  the  tinsel  from  their  priestly  rags 
To  build  them  yellow  idols,  ever  caught 

30 


Nannie's  Picture 

'  Mid  the  loud  tumult  of  their  mummeries, 
The  slightest  whisper  of  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

So,  do  you  think  that  those  who  fret  and  fume, 
Tossed  round  and  round  in  a  great  whirl  of  lies 
Can  catch  the  meaning  lying  in  your  eyes, 

Or  mark  the  colors  of  the  mystic  bloom 
Whose  silent  growth  is  as  a  rose  of  fire; 

Or  through  the  rifts  of  dark,  and  mist,  and  gloom, 
See  Godlike  Love  beneath  your  manly  ire? 


NANNIE'S   PICTURE 

HILD-INSTINCT  of  the  Holy  mingles  here, 
With  the  fine  painter-cunning:  heart  and  eye 

All  steeped  in  seeing  of  the  mystic  sky 
Which  broods  above  the  enchanted  wondersphere 

The  little  children  walk  in.     Else,  whence  came 
The  aromatic  effluence  that  grows, 
Dear  as  first  fragrance  of  a  dawning  rose, 

Out  from  the  canvas — and  the  subtle  flame 
Wreathing  the  dainty  baby-brows  with  light 

Clothed  with  revealings  of  the  Infinite — 
Making  us  part  revering  lips  to  bless 

The  winsome  face  we  look  on,  and  pass  forth, 
Watching  the  beatific  Sun  caress 

The  people  swarming  on  the  happy  earth  ? 

31 


"  VATES." 

[Written  to  General  I<ytle,  author  of  the  poem,  "Antony  to 
Cleopatra,"  ("I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying"),  who  was  killed  at 
Chickamauga,  the  bullet  passing  through  the  original  manuscript 
of  this  sonnet.  Orderly  Sergeant  Realf  served  in  I^ytle's  Brigade, 
and  the  two  poets  were  friends.] 

VATES,"  I  shouted,  while  your  solemn  words 
Rythmic  with  crowded  passion,  lilted  past; 
"  That  Land  which,  thrilled  with  anguish,  still  affords 

Great  souls  all  coined  in  one  grand  battle  blast, 
Like  this  soul  and  this  singing,  shall  not  fail 

So  much  as  by  a  hair's-breadth,  of  the  large 
Results  of  affluent  wisdom,  whereunto 

Across  the  bloody  gaps  our  blades  must  hold, 
And  far  beyond  the  mountain  and  the  maze 

We  pass  with  bruised  limbs  that  yet  shall  scale 
The  topmost  heights  of  Being!     Therefore,  thou 

Lead  on,  that  we  may  follow,  for  I  think 

The  Future  hath  not  wherefrom  we  should  shrink, 
Held  by  the  steadfast  shining  of  your  brow! " 

TO  R.  J.  H. 

I    MARKED  fine  crownings  of  a  Crowning  Hand 
Flush  on  his  brooding  brows:  and,  catching  so 
The  inward  radiance  through  the  outward  glow, 
I  know  that  very  tranquil,  deep  and  grand, 
Waited  a  power  within  him  to  withstand 
All  luring  shows  of  things  that  were  not  based 

32 


Written  on  the  Night  of  His  Suicide. 

On  firmamental  pillars.     Then  I  said 
I  thank  God  reverently  that  amid  this 
Loud  whirl  of  eager  faction  He  hath  placed 
A  far-eyed  seer,  calm-poised  of  heart  and  head — 
A  lithe-thewed  Titan  with  winged  faiths  that  kiss 
The  crests  of  difficult  peaks,  and  tread  the  paths 
Where  the  clear-sighted  walk  by  the  abyss 
Close  to  diviner  loves  and  holier  wraths. 


WRITTEN   ON  THK   NIGHT   OF  HIS 
SUICIDE 

I  ^\E   mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum."     When 

~^~^     For  me  this  end  has  come  and  I  am  dead, 
And  the  little  voluble,  chattering  daws  of  men 

Peck  at  me  curiously,  let  it  then  be  said 
By  some  one  brave  enough  to  speak  the  truth: 

Here  lies  a  great  soul  killed  by  cruel  wrong. 
Down  all  the  balmy  days  of  his  fresh  youth 

To  his  bleak,  desolate  noon,  with  sword  and  song, 
And  speech  that  reshed  up  hotly  from  the  heart, 

He  wrought  for  liberty,  till  his  own  wound 
(He  had  been  stabbed),  concealed  with  painful  art 

Through  wasting  years,  mastered  him,  and  he 

swooned, 

And  sank  there  where  you  see  him  lying  now 
With  the  word  "  Failure  "  written  on  his  brow. 

33 


Written  on  the  Night  of  His  Suicide. 

But  say  that  he  succeeded.     If  he  missed 

World's  honors,  and  world's  plaudits,  and  the  wage 
Of  the  world's  deft  lacqueys,  still  his  lips  were  kissed 

Daily  by  those  high  angels  who  assuage 
The  thirstings  of  the  poets — for  he  was 

Born  unto  singing — and  a  burthen  lay 
Mightily  on  him,  and  he  moaned  because 

He  could  not  rightly  utter  to  the  day 
What  God  taught  in  the  night.     Sometimes,  nathless, 

Power  fell  upon  him,  and  bright  tongues  of  flame, 
And  blessings  reached  him  from  poor  souls  in  stress; 

And  benedictions  from  black  pits  of  shame, 
And  little  children's  love,  and  old  men's  prayers, 
And  a  Great  Hand  that  led  him  unawares. 

So  he  died  rich.     And  if  his  eyes  were  blurred 

With  big  films — silence  !  he  is  in  his  grave. 
Greatly  he  suffered;  greatly,  too,  he  erred; 

Yet  broke  his  heart  in  trying  to  be  brave. 
Nor  did  he  wait  till  Freedom  had  become 

The  popular  shibboleth  of  courtier's  lips; 
He  smote  for  her  when  God  Himself  seemed  dumb 

And  all  His  arching  skies  were  in  eclipse. 
He  was  a-weary,  but  he  fought  his  fight, 

And  stood  for  simple  manhood;  and  was  joyed 
To  see  the  august  broadening  of  the  light 

And  new  earths  heaving  heavenward  from  the  void. 
He  loved  his  fellows,  and  their  love  was  sweet — 
Plant  daisies  at  his  head  and  at  his  feet. 

34 


WAR  AND 

RELATED 

LYRICS 


APOCALYPSE 

Private  Arthur  lyadd,  Sixth  Regiment,  Massachusetts  Volunteers, 
First  Martyr  in  the  War  for  liberty  of  1861-5.  Slain  in  Baltimore, 
April  19,  1861. 

O  TRAIGHT  to  his  heart  the  bullet  crushed; 
k_/      Down  from  his  breast  the  red  blood  gushed, 
And  over  his  face  a  glory  rushed. 


A  sudden  spasm  shook  his  frame, 
And  in  his  ears  there  went  and  came 
A  sound  as  of  devouring  flame, 

Which  in  a  moment  ceased,  afl^t  then 
The  great  light  clasped  h^-»  brows  again, 
So  that  they  shone  like  Stephen's  when 

Saul  stood  apart  a  little  space, 

And  shook  with  trembling  awe  to  trace 

God's  splendors  settling  o'er  his  face. 

Thus,  like  a  king,  erect  in  pride, 

Raising  cle&n  hands  toward  heaven,  he  cried, 

All  hAtl  the  Stars  and  Stripes!"  and  died. 


Died  grandly.     But  before  he  fell, 
(O  blessedness  ineffable!) 
Vision  Apocalyptical 

37 


Apocalypse 

Was  granted  to  him,  and  his  eyes, 
All  radiant  with  glad  surprise, 
Looked  forward  through  the  centuries, 

And  saw  the  seed  which  sages  cast 
On  the  world's  soil  in  cycles  past, 
Spring  up  and  blossom  at  the  last. 

Saw  how  the  souls  of  men  had  grown, 
And  where  the  scythes  of  truth  had  mown 
Clear  space  for  Liberty's  white  throne. 

Saw  how,  by  sorrows  tried  and  proved, 
The  blackening  stains  had  been  removed 
Forever  from  the  land  he  loved. 

Saw  Treason  crushed,  and  Freedom  crowned, 
And  clamorous  fury  gagged  and  bound, 
Gasping  its  life  upon  the  ground. 

Saw  how,  across  his  Country's  slopes 
Walked  swarming  troops  of  cheerful  hopes, 
Which  evermore  to  broader  scopes 

Increased,  with  power  that  comprehends 
The  world's  weal  in  its  own,  and  bends 
Self-needs  to  large  unselfish  ends. 

38 


Apocalypse 

Saw  how,  throughout  the  vast  extents 
Of  earth's  most  populous  continents 
She  dropped  such  rare-hearted  affluence, 

That  from  beyond  the  utmost  seas 
The  wondering  people  thronged  to  seize 
Her  proffered  pure  benignities. 

Saw  how,  of  all  her  trebled  host 

Of  widening  empires,  none  might  boast 

Whose  love  were  best,  or  strength  were  most, 

Because  they  grew  so  equal  there 
Beneath  the  flag  which,  debonair, 
Waved  joyous  in  the  cleansed  air. 

With  far  off  vision,  gazing  clear 
Beyond  this  gloomy  atmosphere 
Which  shuts  us  in  with  doubt  and  fear, 

He,  marking  how  her  high  increase 
Ran,  greatening  in  perpetual  lease 
Through  balmy  years  of  odorous  peace — 

Greeted  in  one  transcendent  cry 

Of  intense  passionate  ecstacy, 

The  sight  which  thrilled  him  utterly, 

39 


My  Sword  Song 

Saluting,  with  most  proud  disdain 
Of  murder  and  of  mortal  pain, 
The  vision  which  shall  be  again! 

So,  lifted  with  prophetic  pride, 

Raised  conquering  hands  toward  heaven  and  cried, 
"All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes!"  and  died. 


MY  SWORD  SONG 

DAY    in,  day  out,  through  the  long  campaign, 
I  march  in  my  place  in  the  ranks; 
And  whether  it  shine  or  whether  it  rain, 

My  good  sword  cheerily  clanks; 
It  clanka  am*  cfanfcs  in  a  knightly  way 

Like  the  ring  of  an  armored  heel; 
And  this  is  the  song  which  day  by  day, 
It  sings  with  its  lips  of  steel: 

1  O  friend,  from  whom  a  hundred  times, 

I  have  felt  the  strenuous  grip 
Of  the  all-renouncing  love  that  climbs 

To  the  heights  of  fellowship; 
Are  you  tired  of  all  the  weary  miles  ? 

Are  you  faint  with  your  swooning  limbs  ? 
Do  you  hunger  back  for  the  olden  smiles, 
And  the  lilt  of  olden  hymns  ? 
40 


My  Sword  Song 

Has  your  heart  grown  weak  since  that  rapt  hour 

When  you  leapt,  with  a  single  bound, 
From  dreaming  ease  to  sovereign  power 

Of  a  living  soul  world-crowned  ? 
Behold!  the  aloes  of  sacrifice 

Are  better  than  radiant  wine, 
And  the  bloody  sweat  of  a  cause  like  this 

Is  an  agony  divine. 

'  Under  the  wail  of  the  shuddering  world 

Amoan  for  its  fallen  sons; 
Over  the  volleying  thunders  hurled 

From  the  throats  of  the  wrathful  guns; 
Above  the  roar  of  the  plunging  line 

That  rocks  with  the  fury  of  hell, 
Runs  the  absolute  voice:  O  Earth  of  mine, 

Be  patient,  for  all  is  well!" 

Thus  sings  my  sword  to  my  soul,  and  I, 

Albeit  the  way  is  long, 
As  soiled  clouds  darken  athwart  the  sky — 

Still  keep  my  spirit  strong: 
Whether  I  live,  or  whether  I  lie 

On  the  stained  ground,  ghastly  and  stark, 
Beyond  the  carnage  I  shall  descry 

God's  love  shine  across  the  dark. 


IN   BATTLE 

To  Abraham  Lincoln 

O  LEADER  of  our  sacred  cause, 
Twin  sharer  in  our  sadness, 
Defender  of  our  trampled  laws 

From  perjured  felon's  madness — 
In  all  our  stress  of  mortal  strife, 

Our  weariness  and  weeping, 
Our  hearts  thank  God  our  country's  life 
Is  in  thine  honest  keeping! 

So  blithe  amid  the  cares  of  state, 

So  calm  mid  howling  faction, 
Clear-souled  to  hasten  or  to  wait, 

As  fits  the  largest  action: 
With  joyance,  like  a  little  child's, 

Along  thy  grave  moods  straying, 
And  breezes  as  from  heather  wilds 

In  every  cheery  saying. 

God  bless  the  reverend  lips  that  spake 
The  one  grand  word  whose  thunder 

Through  all  the  gladdened  heavens  brake 
Our  damned  chains  asunder! 

God  bless  the  patient  hand  that  traced 
The  golden  glorious  pages, 

42 


Introspection 

Whereby  our  lost  crowns  are  replaced 
For  immemorial  ages! 

We  follow  where  thou  leadest;  far 

Beyond  the  tribulation 
That  drapes  these  dreadful  years  of  war, 

We  see  a  newer  nation, 
Through  balmy  days  of  greatening  power, 

And  nights  of  calm  ascension, 
Expand  into  the  perfect  flower 

Of  God's  divine  intention. 


INTROSPECTION 

[July  Fourth,  1876] 

THROUGHOUT  the  land  a  glad  shout  runs, 
Pealed  by  a  mighty  nation; 
Flags  dance,  bells  ring,  innocuous  guns 

Roar  eager  salutation: 
With  joy  the  bannered  cities  thrill; 

Stored  hearts  unpack  their  treasures; 
Wood,  stream  and  valley,  plain  and  hill, 
Leap  to  heroic  measures. 

The  roused  air  throbs  with  fervor,  all 
The  places  have  blithe  seeming; 

43 


Introspection 

The  meeting  skies  hold  festival, 
The  sun  hath  brighter  beaming; 

The  glory  of  one  hundred  years 
Breaks  in  proud  speech  of  thunder; 

And  I  amid  the  epic  cheers 
Listen  and  brood  and  ponder. 

I  ponder  o'er  the  days  gone  by 

With  their  dead  tribulations, 
And  see  the  solemn  future  lie 

Sown  thick  with  fresh  probations, 
And  hear  beyond  the  jocund  noise 

That  rushes  like  a  river, 
The  still  persuasion  of  a  Voice 

Which  speaks  from  the  Forever. 

O,  well-beloved  land,  whose  fame 

All  winds  bear  in  their  keeping, 
The  stately  music  of  whose  name 

Far  peoples  are  repeating, 
As  if  the  footsteps  of  its  sound 

By  comfortings  were  followed, 
And  smells  of  Freedom  from  the  ground 

By  Freedom's  footsteps  hallowed! 

Brave  things  and  noble  hast  thou  done, 
Staunch  helpings  for  the  human; 

44 


Introspection 

Hale  hopes  hast  strewn  beneath  the  sun 

For  hopeless  man  and  woman. 
Crowned  growths  of  grandeur  have  been  thine, 

And  sunrise  bursts  of  beauty, 
And  hearty  draughts  of  God-like  wine 

For  Man-like  thirsts  of  duty; 

And  sacrifices  that  have  wrung 

The  quick  cords  of  existence, 
And  bloody  woe  of  pulses  strung 

For  battle's  steeled  resistance; 
And  wastes  where  heaven,  black  with  wraths 

Against  thy  coward  lapses, 
And  thorny  search  in  coiling  paths 

Of  perilous  Perhapses. 

And  fit  it  is,  and  wise,  and  well, 

This  dear  commemoration 
Of  winged  upstrainings  out  from  hell, 

And  eras  of  salvation, 
To  let  thy  ecstacies  run  free 

In  flowing  jubilances, 
And  build  brave  odes  for  liberty 

And  her  significances. 

But  thou  hast  victories  yet  to  win, 
Harsh  roads  of  pain  to  travel, 

45 


Introspection 

With  stress  without  and  strife  within, 

Beset  by  beast  and  devil, 
Before  thy  bruised  feet  crest  the  heights 

That  kiss  the  world's  blue  coping, 
And  heaven  for  thee  and  thine  ignites 

The  altars  of  thy  hoping. 

Thine  affluent  realms  that  stretch  away 

From  ocean  unto  ocean; 
Thy  subtle  lightnings  that  obey 

Thy  right  hand's  finest  motion; 
Thy  ships  that  walk  the  utmost  waves; 

Thy  thronging  sways  and  splendors; 
Thy  consecrated  household  graves; 

Thine  hero-eyed  defenders — 

These  are  not  thy  finalities, 

They  are  the  tools  for  hewing 
Thine  august  spiritual  destinies, 

Else  thine  aghast  undoing: 
For  lo!  unless  the  inward  Soul 

Subdue  the  outward  greatness, 
The  worms  of  ruin  sap  the  whole 

Foredoomed  for  desolateness. 

Full  oft,  on  palace  lintel-posts, 
Whereat  Success  stands  vaunting, 

46 


Wanted:  Joshua 

The  fingers  of  invisible  ghosts 
Write  the  dread  verdict — Wanting! 

And  though  the  plaudits  and  the  praise 
Of  all  men  rise  before  thee, 

Unmoved,  a  spirit  waits  always 
To  mark  if  thou  art  worthy. 

Like  whips,  thy  missed  ideals  urge 

Fate's  hounding  Nemesises; 
Like  cliffs,  thy  breezy  gardens  verge 

On  fathomless  abysses; 
The  pillared  cloud  may  burst  in  doom, 

The  shining  wing  may  darken, 
The  flaming  guidance  may  consume — 

O,  land  beloved,  hearken! 


WANTED:    JOSHUA 

WHEN  God,  whose  courtlier  crowns  did  wait 
The  forehead  of  our  Moses,  drew 
His  steps  where  Pisgah  shot  up  straight 

As  a  Seer's  thought  into  the  blue 
Of  the  immaculate  heavens,  and  fed 

The  life-long  hunger  of  his  eyes 
With  one  swift  vision  that  struck  him  dead 
For  awe  of  its  sublimities: — 

47 


Wanted:  Joshua 

And  we  turned  instant  unto  you, 

(Calling  you  Joshua),  to  complete 
The  meanings  of  the  paths  which  grew 

So  sharp  to  our  unsandaled  feet, 
I  swear  we  thought  the  living  soul 

Of  that  great  prophet  wrought  afresh 
In  you,  like  thunder,  to  control 

To  sovereign  ends  our  drooping  flesh. 


Were  not  you  with  us  when  God  clave 

The  Red  Sea,  with  a  blow,  in  twain  ? 
Were  you  not  of  us  when  he  gave 

Manna,  and  quails,  and  blessed  rain  ? 
And  those  tall  pillars  which  he  yoked 

For  service — did  you  see  them  not  ? 
And  all  the  alien  blood  that  soaked 

The  paths  he  hewed — is  that  forgot  ? 


When  crested  Sinai  cracked  in  flame, 

And  all  the  desert  round  about 
Shook  with  the  dreadness  of  his  Name 

Whose  glory  paled  the  sunlight  out; 
Did  not  you  tremble  with  the  rest, 

When  his  imperatives  blazed  forth 
Along  the  tablets,  to  attest 

The  Absolute  unto  the  Earth  ? 

48 


Wanted:  Joshua 

Whence — when  the  Lord  smote  hip  and  thigh 

The  Hittite  and  the  Amelekite — 
Did  you  draw  warrant  to  deny 

To  him  the  issues  of  the  fight  ? 
By  what  prerogative  do  you 

Defraud  the  heavens  of  those  results 
Which  ripened  when  we  overthrew 

Hell's  battering  rams  and  catapults  ? 


I  think  you  are  not  Joshua,  but 

Aaron  art — he  whose  atheist  hands, 
Unclean  as  sin  with  worldly  smut, 

Reared,  when  God  lightened  o'er  the  lands,  ** 

A  poor  vain  idol,  unto  which, 

Reaching  imploring  arms,  he  caught 
A  curse  that  burned  like  molten  pitch, 

As  symbol  of  his  special  Thought. 


Are  your  hands  lifted  toward  the  sun, 

What  time  our  onsets  wax  and  wane  ? 
Do  you  see  troops  of  angels  run 

In  shining  armor  o'er  the  plain  ? 
I  know  not;  but  I  know,  full  sooth, 

No  wrath  of  hell,  nor  rage  of  man, 
Nor  recreant  servant  of  the  Truth, 

Can  balk  us  of  our  Canaan. 

49 


A   BLACK   MAN'S   ANSWER 

WELL,  if  it  be  true,  as  you  assert, 
That  this  is  a  land  for  the  white  man's  rule, 
And  not  for  "niggers,"  does  that  import 
That  our  God  is  the  white  man's  fool  ? 

"  Two  peoples  ?    The  hammers  and  heats  of  war 

Have  forged  and  fused,  like  welded  links, 
The  fates  of  the  twain  in  one;  we  are 
For  you,  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx. 

"  And  you  must  solve  us,  unless  again, 

Over  the  burning  marl  of  woe 
Where  never  falleth  the  blessed  rain, 
Hell-dragged  you  want  to  go. 

"  When  the  scythes  of  slaughter  swung  in  blood 

And  fair  green  fields  of  men  were  mown, 
Did  not  our  black  limbs  dapple  the  sod 
With  streams  as  red  as  your  own  ? 

"  But  not  for  this  do  we  look  in  your  face, 

White  man,  and  ask,  with  hungry  eyes, 
My  brother  !  give  us  a  little  space 
To  work  in  under  the  skies  ! 

50 


Emancipation 

"  We  are  not  mendicants:  we  are  Souls  ! 

The  soul  that  thrilled  in  Shakespeare,  and 
Lit  Lincoln's  lips  with  living  coals, 
Thrills  us  here  where  we  stand. 

"  We  try  to  use  our  wings  and  fly; 

We  try  to  use  our  limbs  and  run; 
Do  you  hold  mortmain  over  the  sky, 
Over  the  earth  and  the  sun  ? 

"  Your  apples  are  of  Hesperides; 

You  give  us  those  of  Tantalus; 
But  what  if  the  Lord  should  blight  your  trees 
And  mock  you  as  you  mock  us?" 


EMANCIPATION 

THANK  God,  thank  God,  we  do  not  flinch 
A  single  hair's-breadth  from  the  way, 
Nor  lose  the  thousandth  of  an  inch 

Of  royal  manhood  on  this  day! 
Thank  God,  the  words  are  calm  and  strong 

And  keenly  tempered  with  the  truth, 
While  ringing  like  a  battle  song, 
All  proud,  of  fiery-hearted  youth! 

51 


Emancipation 

By  Heaven!  it  sweeps  through  every  soul 

With  its  majestic,  rythmic  tread, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  thunder-roll 

Of  God's  worlds  marching  overhead; 
So  high  above  our  petty  reach 

Along  the  listening  heights  it  passed, 
Brimful  of  burning  inner  speech 

As  Paul  when  Felix  stood  aghast. 


Our  spirits,  starting  from  their  sleep 

Into  a  crowned  and  regal  mood, 
Cleave  on  like  light  across  the  deep 

Of  silence  and  of  solitude; 
And,  with  the  sweat  upon  our  brows, 

Stand  strong  again  beside  you  there 
In  quick  acceptance  of  the  vows, 

As  from  Christ's  tomb  white-winged  were. 


O,  hearts  that  sickened  at  the  wrong! 

O,  eyes  that  strained  for  the  right! 
O,  weary  lives  whose  bitter  song 

Swelled  upward  to  the  infinite! 
O!  mothers  waiting  for  your  sons! 

O  sons  whose  clenched  lips  never  smile! 
O  dreary  hearts  of  drooping  ones, 

Be  patient  for  a  little  while. 

52 


How  Long? 

For  sure  as  God's  Evangel  moves 

The  hidden  pulses  of  the  spheres, 
So  surely  do  the  unseen  loves 

Thrill  onward  thro'  the  greatening  years: 
And  as  we  keep  our  loftiest  faith, 

Our  kingly  hopes,  our  sacred  pledge, 
The  crown  of  truth  that  freedom  hath 

Hangs  now  upon  the  morning's  edge. 


HOW   LONG? 

HOW  long,  O  God,  how  long 
Must  fettered  Freedom  writhe  beneath  her  chains, 
And  send  the  wailing  of  the  captive's  song 
Across  the  purple  plains  ? 

How  long,  O  God,  how  long 

Shall  Slavery's  blood-hounds  hold  her  by  the  throat, 
And  her  life  reel  beneath  the  dripping  thong 

Of  Hell's  Iscariot? 

How  long,  O  God,  how  long 

Shall  she  be  haunted,  homeless,  thro'  the  Earth; 
Nor  thou — Just  One — against  the  crimson  wrong, 

Launch  Thy  broad  lightnings  forth  ? 

53 


How  Long? 

O  have  thine  eyes  not  seen 

With  what  high  trust  she  bore  her  bitter  shames; 
Nor  marked  how  calm  and  God-like  and  serene 

She  stood  amid  the  flames  ? 

O  have  thine  ears  not  heard 
Her  long  low  gasp  of  inarticulate  prayer, 
When  livid  hate,  with  redly  reeking  sword, 

Has  clutched  her  by  the  hair? 

O  did'st  Thou  not  look  down 
Upon  her  cruel  buffetings  of  scorn, 
And  watch  her  temples  stream  beneath  the  crown, 

Made  of  the  mocking  thorn? 

And  dost  Thou  not  discern 
How  the  fierce,  pitiless  rabble  casteth  lots 
For  her  white  robes — alas!  so  rent  and  torn, 

And  smeared  with  purple  spots  ? 

O  when  she  held  the  cup, 
On  those  wild  nights  of  her  Gethsemane; — 
Father  in  Heaven,  did  she  not  still  look  up, 

Firm  and  unmoved — to  Thee  ? 

And  when  the  bloody  sweat 
Oozed  from  the  blue  veins  of  her  shuddering  limbs, 

54 


Rally! 

Was  not  the  burning  clasp  of  agony  met 
With  calm  triumphant  hymns  ? 

O,  if  she  be  Thy  child, 

And  Thou  art  God,  burst  now  this  dread  eclipse, 
And  let  her  pass  forth,  free  and  undented, 

With  Thy  breath  on  her  lips. 


Inscribed  to  the  ex-soldiers  and  sailors  of  the  Union  armies  and 
navies,  1872. 

O      COMRADES,    who  rose  in  your  grandeur  and 
j  might, 

When  the  land  of  our  love  was  in  danger, 
And  Liberty  girdled  your  loins  for  the  fight 
As  you  sprang  to  protect  and  avenge  her; 
O,  brothers,  whose  tread,  like  the  thunder  of  God, 

Shook  city  and  mountain  and  valley — 
Once  more  the  old  bugle-notes  echo  abroad, 
And  once  more  our  country  cries,  Rally! 

Not  now  with  the  banners  of  battle  unrolled, 
The  steel-fronted  ranks  standing  steady; 

Not  now  with  the  terrible  calmness  of  old, 
When  the  guns  were  unlimbered  and  ready; 

55 


Rally! 

Not  now  with  the  heats  as  when  columns  were  sped 

For  bloodiest  taking  and  giving — 
But  only  with  Honor  for  all  of  our  Dead, 

And  Justice  for  all  of  our  Living. 

Bring  ballots,  not  bullets — bring  spirits  that  burn 

With  noble  and  knightly  endeavor, 
To  keep  our  bright  harvests  of  Progress  unshorn 

By  a  sheaf,  of  their  fullness  forever. 
Bring  love  that  can  pardon  the  sorrowful  past, 

Bring  hopes  that  are  broad  as  our  border; 
But  bring  the  old  Manhood  which,  unto  the  last, 

Stood  Alp-like  for  Union  and  Order! 

We  fought,  and  we  conquered — they  fought,  and  they 
fell— 

And  Freedom  arose  in  her  beauty; 
But  our  swords  were  not  edged  with  the  rancors  of  hell — 

They  were  sharpened  for  Country  and  Duty. 
The  sternest  and  swiftest  when  armies  are  launched, 

And  the  onset  of  daring  is  shouted, 
Are  tender  as  women  when  wounds  should  be  staunched 

For  the  broken  and  ruined  and  routed. 

We  cherish  no  hatreds — our  breath  is  as  sweet 

As  the  smell  of  the  midsummer  clover; 
When  the  arms  of  our  foemen  were  stacked  at  our  feet, 

That  moment  our  anger  was  over. 

56 


Rally! 

Wrath  softened  to  pity  the  instant  their  cry 

Took  form  of  alarm  and  disaster, 
And  we  buried  our  ire  in  the  grave  of  the  Lie 

Above  whose  dark  corpse  we  stood  Master. 

Our  hurts  are  as  nothing — our  gashes  and  scars 

Are  worn  without  boastings  and  shamings: — 
What  have  men  who  have  climbed  to  the  steeps  of  the 
stars 

To  do  with  Earth's  vauntings  and  claimings  ? 
But  the  Altars  of  Righteousness  reared  on  the  mounds 

Where  our  canonized  heroes  lie  sleeping — 
Not  a  stone  must  be  touched  while  the  sun  swings  his 
rounds, 

And  our  sabres  are  still  in  our  keeping! 

From  your  fields,  then,  and  firesides,  from  workshops 
and  plow, 

O,  comrades,  come  forth  in  your  splendor, 
Recrowning  the  Victor  and  Saver  whom  now 

Our  temples  demand  as  Defender! 
Fling  out  the  great  cry  which  you  flung  when  the  breath 

Of  the  cannon  blew  hot  in  your  faces: — 
One  Banner,  one  Being,  one  Freedom,  one  Faith, 

For  immutable  bulwark  and  basis! 


57 


IN    MEMORIAM 

Read  at  the  Annual  Encampment  of  Pennsylvania  Departm 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  Pittsburg,  January  26,  1876. 

GREAT  Greece  hath  her  Thermopylae, 
Stout  Switzerland  her  Tell; 
The  Scott  his  Wallace  heart — and  we 

Have  saints  and  shrines  as  well. 
The  graves  of  glorious  Marathon 

Are  green  above  the  dead, 
And  we  have  battle-fields  whereon 
The  grass  at  root  is  red. 

Not  only  in  the  grizzled  past 

Tingled  heroic  blood; 
Not  only  were  its  swart  sons  cast 

In  knightly  mold  and  mood; 
Altar  of  sacrifice  perfumed 

Our  hot,  sulphuric  air; 
And  Sidney's  shining  manhood  bloomed 

Around  us  everywhere. 

Brands,  regnant  as  the  stainless  sword 
That  grazed  King  Arthur's  thigh, 

58 


In  Memoriam 

What  time  our  battle  instincts  stirred, 

Flashed  bare  beneath  the  sky; 
We  felt  the  rowels  of  honor  prick 

As  keenly  as  did  he 
Who  sowed  his  savage  epoch  thick 

With  perfect  chivalry. 

Cceur-de-lions  on  every  field, 

Sweet  saints  in  every  home, 
Through  whose  dear  helping  stood  revealed 

The  joy  of  martyrdom — 
Compassed  by  whose  assuring  loves, 

Our  comrades  dared  and  died 
As  blithely  as  a  bridegroom  moves 

To  meet  his  glowing  bride. 

Though  tears  be  salt,  and  wormwood  yet 

Is  bitter  to  the  taste, 
God's  heart  is  tender,  and  doth  let 

No  sorrow  fail  or  waste. 
O,  mothers  of  our  Gracchi!  when 

You  gave  your  jewels  up, 
A  continent  of  hopeless  men 

Grew  rich  in  boundless  hope. 

Renown  stands  mute  beside  the  graves 
With  which  the  land  is  scarred; 

59 


In  Memoriam 

Unheralded  our  splendid  braves 
Went  forth  unto  the  Lord; 

No  poet  hoards  their  humble  names 
In  his  immortal  scrolls, 

But  not  the  less  the  darkness  flames 
With  their  illumined  souls. 


Beneath  the  outward  havoc,  they 

The  inward  mercy  saw; 
High  intuitions  of  duty  lay 

On  them  as  strong  as  law; 
Beyond  the  bloody  horizon 

They  marked  the  soft  rains  stored, 
And  heard  heaven's  tranquil  voices  run 

When  earth's  fierce  cannon  roared. 


O,  little  mounds  that  cost  so  much! 

We  compass  what  you  teach; 
And  our  worse  grossness  feels  the  touch 

Of  your  uplifting  speech. 
You  thrill  us  with  the  thoughts  that  flow 

In  Eucharistic  wine, 
And  by  our  holy  dead  we  know 

That  life  is  still  divine. 


SALVBTB    MIUTES! 

Read  at  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland  Reunion,  1873. 

WELCOME!    and   when  we  say  it,  we    pack   our 
hearts  in  the  saying, 
Just  as  we  did    in   the  days   war-crested,  flaming  and 

thunderous, 
When  half  the  people  were  fighting  and  half  the  people 

were  praying, 

And  slowly  from  crimson  quags  the  granit£  of   Peace 
grew  under  us. 

Ah,  those  were  lofty  days  when,  straight  through  our 

mincing  and  canting, 
The  Soul  of  the  Nation  flashed,  and  gripped  the  hilt  of 

its  brand, 
And  drained  its  aloes  like  wine,  and  strode  forth,  kindled 

and  panting, 
Hewing,  in  forest  of  Lies,  clear  space  for  the  Truth  to 

stand. 

Ah,  those  were  mighty  days!  mighty  for  stress  and  for 

sorrow, 
And  mighty  for  regnant  Manhood  that  turned  them  to 

glory  and  gain; 

61 


Salvete  Milites  ! 

What  would  have  been  the  cast  of  Humanity's  crowned 

to-morrow, 
Save  for  our  yesterdays  of  turbulent  passion  and  pain  ? 

Save  for  the  vivid  swords  which  our  reverent  hearths 

are  keeping, 
Save  for  the  eloquent  guns  that  held  high  faith  with  the 

State, 
Save  for  the  heroes  that  sleep,  and  those  who  pass  to 

their  sleeping, 
Save  for  the  dead  that  are  shrined  and  for  the  living 

who  wait  ? 


This  is  our  time  of  thrift,  of  Commerce,  and  Art,  and  of 

Science, 
And  Nature,  our  nursing-mother,  healeth  the  hurts  of 

war: 
But  the   luster  lights  of   our  years  are   the  sacrificial 

giants 
Who  clave   our    blackness   asunder  and    beaconed   us 

whe»e  we  are. 


Thomas,  poised  Titan  of  Battle;  and  Sheridan,  Wrath's 

Archangel; 
And    Grant,   whose  Cosmic   purpose   not    Chaos  itself 

could  shake; 

62 


Salvete  Milites ! 

And  lance-like  Sherman,  who  spurred  with  the  Century's 

sharp  evangel 
Into  our  century's  drowse,  and  clarioned  Sloth  awake. 

And    Hooker   climbing    the  tlouds   where    his    quarry 

perched  above  him; 
And  Meade,  Disciple  of  Duty — our  hearts  bend  over  his 

grave; 
And  plumed  McPherson  the  splendid,  the  true  Heavens 

guard  him  and  love  him; 
And  the  scepterless  kings  of  the  ranks — the  vast,  un- 

laureled  brave  ! 

Living  or  dead,  Earth  th.rills  with  their  luminous  fervor 
of  spirit; 

Living  or  dead,  their  blood  hath  entered  into  our  veins; 

Their  voice — the  nebulous  stars  of  the  pinnacled  firma 
ment  hear  it; 

Their  work — in  the  nethermost  pits  its  august  influence 
reigns. 

For  what  are  our  times  and  spaces  ?     Leonidas  greeted 

Warren; 

Under  our  scarlet  fields  great  Marathon's  secret  ran. 
Nothing  is  past  or  future,  nothing  is  hidden  or  foreign. 
The  speech  of  Freedom  is  one,  and  one  is  the  soul  of 

Man. 

63 


OF  LIBERTY  AND   CHARITY 

O,  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from  ill, 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  forever  breed  ? 

We  all  are  brethren  ;  even  the  slaves  who  kill 
For  hire  are  men  ;  and  do  avenge  misdeed 
On  the  misdoer,  doth  but  Misery  feed 

With  her  own  broken  heart. 

—SHELLEY. 

I. 

SO  sang  the  wondrous  singer  all  compact 
Of  inspiration  and  prophetic  fire; 
All  built  of  instincts  whose  divineness  tracked 

Music  to  its  first  springs,  and  did  acquire 
The  secret  of  the  Everlasting  Fact, 

To  which  the  poets  of  the  world  aspire, 
And  made  the  land  which  chased  him  o'er  the  seas 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  his  fierce  melodies. 

II. 

He,  being  dead,  yet  speaketh;  his  great  songs 
Run  up  and  down  the  listening  Universe 

Whitening  the  cheeks  of  Tyrannies  and  Wrongs, 
Smiting  Oppression  with  a  lyric  curse; 

Fusing  the  alien  thoughts  of  alien  throngs 
So  that  they  dwell  in  spiritual  intercourse, 

And  breathing  like  a  sweet  wind  of  the  south 

On  wan  lips  wasted  by  the  troublous  drouth 

64 


Of  Liberty  and  Charity 


While  lasts  the  language,  his  high  hymns  shall  last; 

While  stirs  the  heroic  impulse,  he  shall  stir 
The  hearts  of  many  like  a  bugle  blast; 

And  as  the  steed  doth  quicken  to  the  spur, 
Men's  souls  shall  quicken  when  his  strains  have  passed 

Into  their  pulses,  and  grow  worthier 
Of  that  ineffable  beauty  which  he  saw 
With  his  clear  eyes  of  tenderness  and  awe. 


On  him  the  sense  of  human  brotherhood 
Lay  like  a  Prophet's  burden;  if  there  ran 

Immortal  maledictions  in  his  blood 
For  whatsoever  desecrated  Man — 

Nathless  a  lute-like  voice  of  pity  wooed 
The  foolish  evil-doer.     His  stern  ban 

Was  for  the  sin — upon  the  sinner's  lips 

He  laid  the  kisses  of  clean  fellowships. 

v. 

To  him  the  stature  of  a  man  was  as 

The  stature  of  an  angel;  he  could  see — 

Albeit  but  dimly,  as  through  darkened  glass — 
Gleams  of  a  dread  and  awful  sanctity 

Crowning  the  spotted  foreheads,  which,  alas! 
Scarce  felt  their  solemn  crowning.     Equally 

65 


Of  liberty  and  Charity 

He  looked  on  kings  and  beggars;  on  the  attaint 
As  on  the  hero  and  the  praying  saint. 


VI. 


He  saw  Heaven's  rivers  of  compassion  roll 
To  the  uttermost  ends  of  Being;  and  he  strove 

With  all  the  hoarded  splendor  of  his  soul 

To  make  the  lean  earth  bless  itself  with  Love, 

And  crown  itself  with  Love's  grand  aureole, 
Whereby  the  rhythmic  garlands  which  he  wove 

Were  wonderful  for  beauty — iris-hued 

With  the  great  glow  of  God's  infinitude. 


Thou  winged  Spirit,  eagle-plumed  for  power, 
And  flight  beyond  the  daring  of  the  eye! 

We  have  sore  need  of  thee  in  this  dark  hour, 
When  all  the  wells  of  kindness  are  drained  dry, 

And  popular  passion  rages  to  deflower 

The  popular  Conscience,  and  make  Victory 

The  procuress  of  Vengeance,  and  the  lusts 

Of  dragon-eyed  suspicions  and  mistrusts. 


Let  Liberty  run  onward  with  the  years, 
And  circle  with  the  seasons;  let  her  break 

66 


Of  Liberty  and  Charity 

The  tyrant's  harshness,  the  oppressor's  spears; 

Bring  ripened  recompenses  that  shall  make 
Supreme  amends  for  sorrow's  long  arrears; 

Drop  holy  benison  on  hearts  that  ache; 
Put  clearer  radiance  into  human  eyes, 
And  set  the  glad  earth  singing  to  the  skies. 


IX. 


Let  her  voice  thunder  at  the  doors  of  kings, 

And  lighten  in  black  dungeons.     Let  her  breath 

Stir  the  dry  bones  of  peoples  till  there  springs 
Life's  fruitful  vigor  out  of  barren  death, 

And,  roused,  vast  millions  clap  triumphant  wings 
O'er  the  mean  devils  which  have  hindered  faith; 

And  men's  tall  growths  of  excellence  express 

Invincible,  puissant  nobleness. 

x. 

But  let  her  do  all  worthily;  let  not 

The  foul  contagions  of  our  selfishness 

Stain  her  immaculate  purity,  nor  blot 

The  brightness  of  her  vesture,  nor  make  less 

The  marvelous  divineness  of  her  thought, 
Nor  the  rapt  wisdom  of  her  utterances, 

Nor  that  orbed  splendor  of  her  perfect  light, 

Which  is  God's  morning  promised  to  the  night. 

67 


Of  Liberty  and  Charity 

XI. 

And  ye,  O  sovran  people  of  the  land, 

Crowned  with  her  benedictions,  lifted  up 

From  chaos  and  low  tracts  of  shifting  sand, 
And  owlish  places  wherein  ye  did  grope, 

To  the  delectable  mountains  which  command 
Far  visions  of  your  sanctuaries  of  hope — 

Be  yet  to  Mercy  and  to  Love  as  true 

As  Love  and  Mercy  have  been  unto  you. 


Behold!  the  things  are  possible  to  these 
Which  are  not  possible  to  wrath;  they  bear 

The  secret  of  the  laden  mysteries 

Piled  like  packed  doom  in  the  thick-boding  air; 

At  their  fair  girdles  hang  the  mystic  keys 

Which  unlock  inmost  meanings;  their  brows  wear 

The  sole  serenities  that  consecrate 

The  masters  of  the  subtle  sphinx  of  Fate. 


Clean  natures  coin  pure  statutes.     Let  us  cleanse 
The  hearts  that  beat  within  us;  let  us  mow 

Clear  to  the  roots  our  falseness  and  pretense, 
Tread  down  our  rank  ambitions,  overthrow 

Our  braggart  moods  of  puffed  self-consequence, 
Plow  up  our  hideous  thistles  which  do  grow 

68 


Retrospective  and  Introspective 

Faster  than  maize  in  May-time,  and  strike  dead 
The  base  infections  our  low  greeds  have  bred. 


For  lo!  our  climbing  purpose  is  in  vain, 

In  vain  the  vivid  speech  that  glows  and  burns, 

In  vain  our  throes  of  sacrificial  pain; 
Empty  of  hand  our  Liberty  returns 

From  the  broad  fields  where  waves  her  golden  grain; 
Balked  of  its  future  our  sad  presence  mourns; 

Baffled  is  all  our  being  until  we 

On  Freedom's  august  brows  write  Charity. 


RETROSPECTIVE  AND  INTROSPECTIVE 


I    SIT  alone  in  silentness, 
And  dream,  and  muse,  and  ponder; 
Re-live  the  days  of  battle-stress, 
Re-tread  the  fields  of  thunder; 
Re-walk  the  wastes  where  Carnage  fed 

His  hounds,  with  blood  for  water; 
Re-view  the  cities  of  the  dead, 
The  bivouacs  of  slaughter. 

69 


Retrospective  and  Introspective 

I  see  the  desolated  homes, 

The  ruined  altar-places, 
The  symbols  of  dread  martyrdoms 

Written  in  women's  faces; 
I  hear  the  sonless  father's  sighs, 

The  bereaved  mother's  praying, 
The  little  children's  sobbing  cries, 

Orphaned  amid  their  playing. 


I  mark  the  myriad  souls  that  swoon 

Beneath  War's  cruel  splinters; 
The  widowed  lives  that  dwell  alone 

In  everlasting  winters; 
The  unkissed  lips  which  never  shall 

Be  kissed  on  any  morrow; 
The  hopeless  eyes  so  terrible 

With  unavailing  sorrow. 


I  see  the  lifting  of  the  ban 

Our  evil-doing  brought  us; 
The  clearer  views  of  Life  and  Man 

Which  Heaven's  swift  justice  taught  us. 
I  watch  the  homeward-hastening  feet 

Of  crowned  and  laureled  legions, 
And  thrill  beneath  the  calms  that  greet 

The  aching  battle-regions. 

70 


Retrospective  and  Introspective 


O  Northmen,  brothers!  were  not  we 

Copartners  in  the  sinning? 
Have  we  been  leal  to  Liberty 

Through  all,  from  the  beginning  ? 
Did  we  upon  no  trembling  slave 

The  shackles  ever  rivet? 
Give  others  that  which  ye  I  gave, 

Saith  God — but  do  we  give  it  ? 

If  by  the  Lord's  high  Fatherhood 

The  black  man  is  our  brother, 
Dare  our  unfilial  arms  exclude 

The  white  man  for  another? 
Are  we  so  clean  that  we  dare  scowl 

On  any  one  attainted  ? 
While  we  brand  other  hearts  as  foul, 

Have  ours  indeed  repented  ? 

Shall  we  who  toadied  to  the  Wrong 

In  sycophantic  meekness, 
What  time  its  loins  were  broad  and  strong, 

Play  tyrant  in  its  weakness  ? 
Have  we  who,  in  our  by-gone  days, 

Ran  liveried  beside  it, 
No  covert  in  the  untrodden  ways, 

Where  pitying  Death  may  hide  it  ? 

71 


Retrospective  and  Introspective 

Could  we  drain  dry  the  bitter  cup 

Of  life's  humiliation, 
Without  one  tender  word  of  hope, 

Or  love's  extenuation  ? 
Have  we  no  honorable  faith 

For  those  whose  swords  are  broken  ? 
Conditions  ? — must  our  shibboleth 

By  all  the  world  be  spoken  ? 


No  man  can  climb  so  close  to  God 

But  needeth  to  beseech  Him, 
Nor  lapse  so  far  toward  devilhood 

That  mercy  can  not  reach  him; 
We  stand,  with  all,  on  level  ground, 

In  equal  human  fashion, 
Encompassed  by  the  blue  profound 

Of  Infinite  Compassion! 

Shake  hands,  then,  o'er  the  rusted  swords, 

O,  blood-bedraggled  nation; 
Smile  down  the  past  with  sweet  accords 

Of  reconciliation; 
Walk  brotherly  and  lovingly 

The  upward  paths  of  duty, 
And  let  the  kings  and  tyrants  see 

A  People's  kingly  beauty! 

72 


10   TRIOMPHE! 

NOT  ever,  in  all  human  time, 
Did  any  man  or  nation 
Plant  foot  upon  the  peaks  sublime 

Of  Mount  Transfiguration, 
But  first,  in  long  preceding  hours 

Of  dread  and  solemn  Being, 
Crashed  battle  'gainst  Satanic  powers, 
Alone  with  The  All-Seeing. 


God's  glory  lights  no  mortal  brows 

Which  sorrow  hath  not  wasted; 
No  wine  hath  He  for  lips  of  those 

His  lees  who  never  tasted. 
Nor  ever,  till  in  bloodiest  stress 

The  heart  is  well  approved, 
Does  the  All-brooding  Tenderness 

Cry,  This  is  my  Beloved! 

O  land  through  years  of  shrouded  nights 

In  triple  blackness  groping 
Toward  the  far  prophetic  lights 

That  beacon  the  world's  hoping, — 

73 


lo  Triomphe! 

Behold!  no  tittle  shalt  thou  miss 

Of  that  transforming  given 
To  all  who,  dragged  to  hell's  abyss, 

Hold  fast  their  grip  on  heaven. 

The  Lord  God's  purpose  throbs  along 

Our  stormy  turbulences; 
He  keeps  the  sap  of  nations  strong 

With  hidden  recompenses. 
The  Lord  God  sows  His  righteous  grain 

In  battle-blasted  furrows, 
And  draws  from  present  days  of  pain 

Large  peace  for  calm  to-morrows. 

Brothers!  beneath  our  brimming  tears 

Lies  nobler  cause  for  singing 
Than  ever  in  the  shining  years 

When  all  our  vales  were  ringing 
With  happy  sounds  of  mellow  Peace, 

And  all  our  cities  thundered 
With  lusty  echoes,  and  our  seas 

By  freighted  keels  were  sundered. 

For  lo!  the  branding  flails  that  drave 
Our  husks  of  foul  self  from  us, 

Show  all  the  watching  heavens  we  have 
Immortal  grain  of  promise; 

74 


lo  Triomphe! 

And  lo!  the  dreadful  blasts  which  blew 

In  gusts  of  fire  amid  us, 
Have  scorched  and  winnowed  from  the  true 

The  Falseness  that  undid  us. 


No  floundering  more,  for  mind  or  heart, 

Among  the  lower  levels; 
No  welcome  more  for  moods  that  sort 

With  satyrs  and  with  devils; 
But  over  all  our  fruitful  slopes, 

On  all  our  plains  of  beauty, 
Fair  temples  for  fair  human  hopes, 

And  altar-thrones  for  Duty. 

Wherefore,  O  ransomed  people,  shout; 

O  banners,  wave  in  glory; 
O  bugles,  blow  the  triumph  out, 

O  drums,  strike  up  the  story. 
Clang!  broken  fetters,  idle  swords 

Clap  hands,  O  States,  together; 
And  let  all  praises  be  the  Lord's, 

Our  Savior  and  our  Father! 


75 


THE    JOY    GUN 

BORNE  on  the  wings  of  the  Northern  breeze, 
Wafted  on  airs  from  happy  seas, 
The  word  of  the  Lord  by  His  servant's  mouth 
Came  to  the  bondsmen  of  the  South, 
And  young  and  old,  with  a  sudden  cry, 
Answered,  "Yea,  Master,  here  am  I." 

With  the  dread  of  his  old  life  shuddering  through  him, 
With  the  hope  of  his  new  life  beckoning  to  him, 
In  his  heart  the  goad  of  the  troubled  eyes 
Of  those  whose  prayers  flew  on  before  him, 
And  a  vast,  vague  dream  of  broad  free  skies 
Bending  like  God's  dear  pity  o'er  him, 
The  black  man  looked  in  our  general's  face, 
Speaking  his  word  for  himself  and  race. 

He  was  only  a  black  man — grim  and  gaunt, 
Torn  and  tattered,  and  lean  from  want, 
Mixed  with  the  slime  of  the  oozing  fen 
Wherein  he  had  crouched  from  tiger-men} 
Poor  and  ignorant,  mean  and  low, 
Blossom  of  ages  of  shame  and  woe, 
Cowed  by  scourges  and  chains  and  whips, 

76 


The  Joy  Gun 

Starved  of  bountiful  fellowships; 

Dull  of  feeling,  heavy  of  brain, 

Dead  to  the  finer  spiritual  sense 

Which  through  the  white  man's  passion  and  pain 

Sees  that  the  heavens  are  clear,  and  thence 

God  shining  on  us.     Only  a  slave 

With  the  ache  in  his  breast  which  dumb  souls  have. 


But,  as  he  stood  there,  bare  of  head, 

Telling  the  Union  general 

How  his  people  rose  and  fled 

Out  from  the  very  gates  of  hell 

Into  the  darkness,  into  the  night, 

Through  terrible  leagues  of  mortal  flight, 

Past  forest  and  thicket,  swamp  and  flood, 

Leaving  a  trail  of  human  blood; 

And  how  he,  too,  had  crawled  and  crept 

Through  the  armed  watch  the  enemy  kept 

To  see  for  his  brethren  hidden  there. 

Down  in  the  jungles'  fastnesses, 

Whether  indeed  a  pathway  were 

Open  to  freedom  for  him  and  his; 

And  how  they  waited  with  straining  ear, 

And  hearts  on  tiptoe  of  hope  and  fear, 

To  catch  the  throb  of  the  "  blessed  gun  " 

Which  he  prayed  might  shout  to  them,  all  was  won; 

The  general  said  it  should  be  done. 

77 


The  Joy  Gun 

Oh  !  it  was  wonderful  to  trace 

How,  o'er  his  black  and  stolid  face 

Shot,  like  an  instant  gleam  from  the  sun, 

A  pained  rapture,  an  awful  grace, 

An  august  look  in  his  lifted  eyes, 

'Tranced  with  a  vision  through  which  there  brake 

The  self-same  Infinite  voice  which  spake 

To  the  dead  Lazarus,  saying,  "Arise!" 

So  was  the  human  soul  within  him 

Drawn  from  its  hideous  sepulcher 

To  where  archangels  might  woo  and  win  him, 

And  the  breath  of  the  Lord  be  comforter. 

So  from  his  brow  like  a  cowl  there  slid 

The  stagnate  seeming  of  sullen  care, 

In  the  dark  of  which  had  the  man  lain  hid — 

A  new  life  to  the  roots  of  his  hair; 

The  glory  of  God  eclipsed  the  brute, 

And  the  slave  fell  dead  at  the  freedman's  foot. 


Oh,  gun  of  freedom!  that  then  and  there 
Poured  for  the  fainting  fugitives 
Oil  of  gladness  upon  despair, 
Healing  balm  upon  bruised  lives. 
Albeit  thou  speakest  but  once,  I  know 
That  thy  grand  thunder  shall  never  die, 
But  gather  an  ampler  voice,  and  grow 
In  greatening  echoes  around  the  sky, 

78 


We  Need  You  Not 

Over  the  hurtling  shouts  of  war, 

Landward  and  seaward,  near  and  far, 

Till  every  tyranny  reels  and  rocks, 

Smitten  to  hell  by  mighty  shocks, 

And  the  wasted  hearts  of  the  weary  rouse, 

Springborn,  from  desolate  wintry  drowse, 

And  its  blessed  billows  of  music  roll 

To  shackled  body  and  thralled  soul, 

Slave  and  master,  bond  and  free, 

Till  the  whole  earth,  Lord,  lies  pure  in  Thee. 


WE   NEED   YOU  NOT 

OUT  of  the  way  there!  ye  who  stand 
Between  us  and  the  blessed  light 
That  streams  up  where  the  promised  land 

Dawns  faint  and  far  upon  our  sight. 
Out  of  the  way  there!  ye  who  call 

Our  faith  and  works  too  bold  and  hot; 
We  move  in  column  like  a  wall! 

Out  of  the  way!     We  need  you  not. 

Out  of  the  way  there!  ye  who  give 
Your  free  hopes  reaching  to  the  skies, 

For  that  poor,  trembling  fugitive — 
The  thing  ye  call  a  "  Compromise." 

79 


We  Need  You  Not 

Out  of  the  way  there!  ye  who  fear 

To  accept  the  right  or  choose  the  wrong! 

Out  of  the  way  there — insincere! 
And  let  the  people  pass  along. 

Out  of  the  way  there!  ye  who  think 

God's  battles  can  be  bought  and  sold; 
God's  voices  silenced  by  the  chink 

Of  silver,  or  the  touch  of  gold! 
Back  to  the  safety  which  befits 

Your  smooth  lips  and  your  scented  words; 
Out  of  the  way  there — hypocrites! 

For  this  is  Truth's  hour  and  the  Lord's. 

What!   shall  our  souls  that  saw  and  heard 

The  living  covenant  of  God, 
And  marked  His  Angel's  naming  sword 

In  all  the  places  that  we  trod, 
Shall  we  tear  off  the  crowns  that  press 

Our  foreheads  as  the  touch  of  stars, 
And,  for  your  velvet  littleness, 

Give  up  our  grand  old  battle-scars  ? 

Out  of  the  way!  ye  can  not  buy 
Our  Israel  with  your  subtle  creeds, 

While  all  the  wilderness  doth  lie 
In  manna  for  our  human  needs! 

80 


The  Question 

Back  to  your  fleshpots  and  your  chains, 
Your  brackish  waters  and  your  thirst. 

Thank  God  our  manhood  still  remains! 
Stand  back !  we  will  not  be  accurst. 


THE   QUESTION 

AMEN!"  I  cried  in  battle  time, 
When  my  beautiful  heroes  perished, — 
The  earth  of  the  Lord  shall  bloom  sublime 

By  the  blood  of  its  martyrs  nourished. 
"Amen!"  I  said,  when  their  limbs  were  hewn, 
And  their  wounds  showed  blue  and  ghastly; 
The  strength  of  a  man  may  fail  and  swoon, 
But  the  truth  shall  conquer  lastly. 

And  "Amen!"  I  cried,  when  victory's  hymn 

Swelled  over  our  crown'd  banners; 
When  our  eyes  with  the  blinding  tears  were  dim, 

Because  of  our  heart's  hosannas; 
But  I  will  not  basely  stab  my  death 

With  a  poniard-stroke  whilst  giving 
Amen  to  the  lie  that  seeks  to  spread 

Its  black  wrong  over  the  living. 

81 


The  Question 

If  you  shake  clean  hands  with  the  truth  you  shall 

Read  life's  essential  meaning, 
And  through  the  apocalyptical 

Vineyards  of  light  walk  gleaming; 
But  not  in  the  traffic-mongering  marts 

Where  you  place  a  market  value 
On  the  Christward  aching  of  human  hearts, 

Hath  His  angel  ought  to  tell  you. 


You  think  that  your  opaque  eyes  are  one 

With  the  eagle's  eyes  for  vigor, 
While  you  turn  your  back  on  the  truth,  and  shun 

Its  light  with  a  curse  for  the  "  nigger." 
You  prate  of  mercy  and — cotton  bales, 

But  I  fancy  you  are  not  minded 
That  justice,  holding  the  awful  scales, 

Being  blind,  is  color-blinded. 


Can  you  patch  a  cloak  for  your  nakedness 

With  shreds  of  your  own  contriving  ? 
Will  your  shoddy  endure  the  strain  and  stress 

Of  the  looms  that  the  gods  are  driving  ? 
Behold  the  winds  of  the  Lord  shall  tear 

Your  beggarly  rags  in  sunder, 
And  leave  you  shivering,  shamed,  and  bare 

To  the  search  of  its  packed  thunder. 

82 


Our  Lessons 

Will  you  drowse  your  lives  with  a  new  pretense, 

Ere  the  blood  is  dry  in  the  valleys 
That  were  lately  soaked  for  the  old  offense; 

Will  you  learn  anew  what  hell  is  ? 
Do  you  think  that  the  grapes  of  God  will  slip 

Out  of  reach  when  you  are  sated, 
Or  that  of  his  sovran  mastership 

One  jot  will  be  abated  ? 

From  the  unsung  graves  where  our  heroes  died 

In  a  regnant  scorn  of  dying; 
From  souls  that  out  of  the  dark  have  cried 

Through  ages  of  bitter  crying; 
From  the  solemn  heavens,  where  all  must  stand, 

Calling  to  every  spirit, 
A  voice  sweeps  warning  across  the  land, — 

O  brothers!  let  us  hear  it! 


OUR  LESSONS 

Read  Before  the  Army  of  Potomac  Society,  Harrisburg,  Pa., 
May  12,  1874. 

WELL,  we  acknowledge  it;  we  admit 
That  peace  is  blessed,  that  war  is  awful, 
And  when  we  nobly  compass  it 
The  gain  of  commerce  is  fair  and  lawful. 

83 


Our  Lessons 

We  grant  that  sickles  and  pruning  hooks 
Are  better  than  swords  and  battle-axes; 

And  wine  and  honey,  and  art  and  books, 
Sweeter  than  wounds  and  debts  and  taxes. 

But  still,  if  by  treacherous  yielding  chance 

The  land  hath  trafficked  its  splendid  anger 
For  only  a  lean  inheritance 

Of  outward  lustness  and  inward  languor, 
Why  then,  O  comrades,  it  were  full  well 

If  the  shocks  of  our  armies  were  not  over; 
For  the  Lord  made  men  to  conquer  Hell, 

And  not  to  fatten  like  kine  in  clover. 

Our  thrifts  that  crown  us,  our  calms  that  fold 

Our  strength  far  stretching  to  the  Equator, 
Are  less  than  our  simplest  hurts  of  old, 

Except  as  Liberty  makes  them  greater. 
O  riddled  banners!  O  rusted  guns! 

Your  grandeur  moves  in  endless  shining, 
Because  wherever  our  Empire  runs 

Manhood  and  law  run  intertwining. 

If  the  loud  paeans  o'er  shotless  guns 
Mean  also  glory  unto  the  Father, 

So  that  wherever  our  border  runs 
Justice  and  mercy  may  run  together; 

84 


Our  Lessons 

Why,  then  I  answer  that  every  song 

You  sing  to  the  sweet  peace  brooding  o'er  us, 

Cleaving  the  ether  shall  bear  along 
The  added  burden  cf  my  weak  chorus. 

Behold!  our  culminant  battle-cries 

Climb  to  the  sapphire-crested  portals! 
We  hold  clean  covenant  with  the  skies, 

Fair  faith  with  the  pinnacled  immortals! 
And  lo!  the  thunderous  blasts  that  blew 

In  sulphurant  gusts  of  fire  amid  us, 
Scorched  and  winnowed  the  breasted  true 

From  the  frontal  falseness  that  undid  us. 

The  Master's  purposes  throb  along 

Our  stoniest  wraths  of  turbulences; 
He  stayeth  the  sap  of  Peoples  strong 

With  hidden  rigors  and  recompenses; 
For  He  scatters  His  everlasting  grain 

In  bloodiest,  war-drenched  field  and  furrows; 
And  reaps  from  Yesterday's  woe  and  pain, 

Peace  for  the  larger  world's  to-morrows. 

Let  all  the  loud  voices  radiant  shout! 

Ye  clustering  flags  move  on  in  glory! 
Brave  bugles  blow  the  victories  out! 

Beat  drums,  the  imperishable  story! 

85 


Justice  or  Trade 

While  olden  foemen,  with  new  accords 
Of  knightliest  reconciliation, 

Clasp  hands  across  innoxious  swords 
Wedded  to  our  great  hero-nation. 


JUSTICE  OR  TRADE 

'  I  ''HAN  this  no  further,  I  am  af eared. 

1         I  see  an  Infinite  splendor  waiting; 
I  see  an  Infinite  Terror  reared; 

I  see  a  people  hesitating 
Between  a  narrowing  shibboleth 

And  a  cry  that  climbs  to  the  sapphire  portals, 
Between  low  pacts  that  are  crammed  with  death 

And  a  covenant  with  the  Immortals. 

For  God's  dread  tongues  of  terrible  fire, 

Eating  the  darkness  that  plucked  our  vitals, 
And  cast  us  prone  in  the  hungry  mire, 

Achoke  with  agony — what  requitals? 
Behold  in  lowliest  human  guise 

The  Master  standeth;  the  hour  is  going; 
We  look  with  straight  incredulous  eyes; 

Our  false  lips  move,  and  the  cock  is  crowing. 

86 


The  Grand  Army 

Certes,  our  creditors  need  their  dues, 

But  also  the  Heavens  will  have  just  payment. 
If  they  arraign  us,  I  think  we  lose 

All,  and  not  merely  food  and  raiment. 
It  hurts  (does  it  not?)  when  the  flaming  knives 

Of  a  mad  assasssin  hew  and  stab  us? 
Well,  when  the  messenger  arrives, 

Shall  we  send  the  Nazarene  or  Barabbas  ? 


THK  GRAND  ARMY 

Written  for  and  sung  in  G.  A.  R.  Posts  as  part  of  the  RituaL 

FROM  eastern  sea  to  western  shore, 
Loyally,  right  loyally, 
And  breasted  like  the  knights  of  yore, 

Royally,  yes,  royally, 
Roused  by  the  rebel  cannon  roar, 
Our  columns  thickened  more  and  more, 
With  prayers  behind  and  faith  before, 
Rose  the  Union's  Army  Grand. 

From  hall  and  hut,  from  near  and  far, 

Readily,  most  readily, 
We  sprang  unto  the  cry  of  war, 

Steadily,  right  steadily. 

87 


The  Grand  Army 

Stung  by  the  crime  that  we  abhor, 
We  girded  on  our  armor  for 
Deliverance  of  the  nation,  or 

Soldier's  death  on  honor's  field. 


Through  sun  and  gloom,  through  field  and  flood, 

Gloriously,  yes,  gloriously, 
We  pressed  our  path  in  wounds  and  blood, 

Victoriously,  victoriously; 
Graves  grew  beneath  us  where  we  stood; 
By  every  vale,  and  mount,  and  wood, 
They  wait  the  reveille  of  God — 

Soldiers  of  that  Army  Grand. 


Heaven  rest  our  comrades  in  their  graves, 

Lovingly,  most  lovingly; 
Heaven  beam  upon  our  living  braves, 

Approvingly,  approvingly; 
And  oh!  where'er  our  banner  waves, 
Freedom  shall  beckon  unto  slaves, 
So  long  as  God  protects  and  saves 

What  the  Grand  old  Army  won. 


88 


THE    DEFENSE   OF    LAWRENCE 

[Written  after  hearing  the  account  given  the  poet  on  his  arrival 
in  Kansas,  early  in  the  fall  of  1856.  of  the  resistance  made  in 
September  of  that  year  to  the  last  pro-slavery  attack  on  I^awrence, 
Kansas,  when  a  small  number  of  Free  State  men  successfully  held 
the  place  against  2,400  armed  Missourians,  and  drove  back  their  ad 
vance  of  300  men.] 

ALL  night  upon  the  guarded  hill, 
Until  the  stars  were  low, 
Wrapped  round  as  with  Jehovah's  will, 

We  waited  for  the  foe; 
All  night  the  silent  sentinels 

Moved  by  like  gliding  ghosts; 
All  night  the  fancied  warning  bells 
Held  all  men  to  their  posts. 


We  heard  the  sleeping  prairies  breathe, 

The  forest's  human  moans, 
The  hungry  gnashing  of  the  teeth 

Of  wolves  on  bleaching  bones; 
We  marked  the  roar  of  rushing  fires, 

The  neigh  of  frightened  steeds, 
The  voices  as  of  far-off  lyres 

Among  the  river  reeds. 

89 


The  Defense  of  Lawrence 

We  were  but  thirty-nine  who  lay 

Beside  our  rifles  then; 
We  were  but  thirty-nine,  and  they 

Were  twenty  hundred  men. 
Our  lean  limbs  shook  and  reeled  about, 

Our  feet  were  gashed  and  bare, 
And  all  the  breezes  shredded  out 

Our  garments  in  the  air. 


Sick,  sick  of  all  the  woes  which  spring 

Where  falls  the  Southron's  rod, 
Our  very  souls  had  learned  to  cling 

To  freedom  as  to  God; 
And  so  we  never  thought  of  fear 

In  all  those  stormy  hours, 
For  every  mother's  son  stood  near 

The  awful,  unseen  powers. 


And  twenty  hundred  men  had  met 

And  swore  an  oath  of  hell, 
That,  ere  the  morrow's  sun  might  set, 

Our  smoking  homes  should  tell 
A  tale  of  ruin  and  of  wrath, 

And  damning  hate  in  store, 
To  bar  the  freeman's  western  path 

Against  him  evermore. 

90 


The  Defense  of  Lawrence 

They  came:  the  blessed  Sabbath  day, 

That  soothed  our  swollen  veins, 
Like  God's  sweet  benediction,  lay 

On  all  the  singing  plains; 
The  valleys  shouted  to  the  sun, 

The  great  woods  clapped  their  hands, 
And  joy  and  glory  seemed  to  run 

Like  rivers  through  the  lands. 


And  then  our  daughters  and  our  wives, 

And  men  whose  heads  were  white, 
Rose  sudden  into  kingly  lives 

And  walked  forth  to  the  fight; 
And  we  drew  aim  along  our  guns 

And  calmed  our  quickening  breath, 
Then,  as  is  meet  for  Freedom's  sons, 

Shook  loving  hands  with  Death. 


And  when  three  hundred  of  the  foe 

Rode  up  in  scorn  and  pride, 
Whoso  had  watched  us  then  might  know 

That  God  was  on  our  side, 
For  all  at  once  a  mighty  thrill 

Of  grandeur  through  us  swept, 
And  strong  and  swiftly  down  the  hill 

Like  Gideons  we  leapt. 


The  Defense  of  Lawrence 

And  all  throughout  that  Sabbath  day 

A  wall  of  fire  we  stood, 
And  held  the  baffled  foe  at  bay, 

And  streaked  the  ground  with  blood. 
And  when  the  sun  was  very  low 

They  wheeled  their  stricken  flanks, 
And  passed  on,  wearily  and  slow, 

Beyond  the  river*  banks. 

Beneath  the  everlasting  stars 

We  bended  child-like  knees, 
And  thanked  God  for  the  shining  scars 

Of  his  large  victories; 
And  some,  who  lingered,  said  they  heard 

Such  wondrous  music  pass 
As  though  a  seraph's  voice  had  stirred 

The  pulses  of  the  grass. 

*  The  Wakarusa,  Kansas. 


'WE   WILL    SUBDUE  YOU" 

Reply  to  a  Southern  threat  in  1856. 

GO  tell  it  to  the  slaves  that  quake 
Amid  your  canefields  and  your  swamps; 
Go  hiss  it  to  the  hearts  you  break 

Beneath  your  scornful  midnight  lamps; 
With  curses  out  from  cruel  lips, 

With  tortures  and  with  threats  to  kill, 
And  damned  stripes  from  streaming  whips 
Subdue  your  chattels  to  your  will. 

But  never  speak  these  words  to  us 

Who  claim  free  breath  on  Freedom's  soil, 
Lest  on  your  heads  the  slanderous 

Black  lie  of  infamy  recoil. 
We  owe  no  fealty  to  you 

Whose  gold  is  slippery  with  the  gore 
Your  cleaving  knives  and  scourges  drew 

From  the  gashed  souls  you  lord  it  o'er. 

There  breathes  no  driver  in  your  clime, 

Tho  belted  to  the  ribs  with  steel, 
And  choked  with  slavery's  foul  slime, 

Of  whom  we  dare  not  think  and  feel, 

93 


"  We  Will  Subdue  You" 

And  speak,  too,  as  the  truth  shall  list, 

In  tones  that  scorch  and  words  that  warn, 

Till  pelted,  pilloried  and  hissed, 

He  slinketh  from  the  People's  scorn. 

Subdue  ye  those  who  spring  from  men 

That  Mayflower  brought  o'er  the  seas, 
Who  heard  God  talking  with  them,  when, 

Beneath  their  bent  and  praying  knees, 
The  wintry  rocks  of  Plymouth  thrilled, 

And  startled  like  a  living  soul 
At  such  deep  cries  of  faith,  that  stilled 

The  lasht  waves  into  calm  control  ? 

Subdue  the  sons  of  those  who  fought 

Their  sturdy  way  on  Bunker  Hill, 
Nor  ever  rested  till  they  wrought 

Heaven's  meaning  on  a  monarch's  will! 
Subdue  the  people  who  subdue 

The  forests  and  the  mighty  plains, 
Who  make  the  old  earth  ring  anew 

With  nobler  songs  in  higher  strains! 

Subdue  us!  well,  perchance  ye  may 
When,  rising  up  to  kindlier  aims, 

You  cast  your  scowling  pride  away, 

And  wipe  the  tarnish  from  your  names; 

94 


Ireland's  Misrule 

Yea,  when  you  win  the  highest  place 
Of  honor  in  these  peerless  wars, 

Of  strength  and  truth  and  princely  grace, 
You  shall  be  crowned  as  conquerors. 

We  give  the  grasp  of  loving  hands, 

We  speak  the  word  of  kindly  zeal, 
To  all  who  crown  the  swarming  lands 

With  larger  hopes  of  human  weal. 
But  while  your  "chivalry  "  begets 

Such  ulcers  on  the  Nation's  heart, 
We  break  like  reeds  your  empty  threats 

And  stand  as  strangers,  wide  apart. 


IRELAND'S    MISRULE 

O  ENGLAND,  from  thy  glory  and  greatness  of  old, 
So  cankered  with  Commerce,  so  corrupted  with 

gold, 

So  hungry  for  Empire,  so  thirsty  for  blood, 
So  cruel  to  Man  and  so  false  to  God! 

Art  thou  the  gemmed  Island  whose  Liberty  runs 

Through  circles  of  ages  and  cycles  of  suns; 

From  Arthur,  and  Alfred,  and  Harold,  and  all 

The  high  sources  whose  grandeur  but  deepen  thy  fall? 

95 


Ireland's  Misrule 

Art  thou  the  brave  land  which  the  Poets  have  sung, 
Round  such  a  world's  hopings  have  clustered  and  clung? 
The  beautiful  land  which  earth's  exiles  hold  dear  ? 
Was  Sidney  thy  soldier — was  Shakespeare  thy  seer? 

Did  Wilberforce  spring  from  thy  loins  ?     Was  it  thou 
Whom  Hampden  called  Mother,  and  Milton  did  plow 
The  fields  of  his  soul  for,  and  Russell  and  Vane 
Made  the  days  of  Aristides  blossom  again  ? 

O  drugged  with  ambition,  and  sodden  with  pride, 

And  soaked  with  the  tears  which  thy  victims  have  cried, 

Hypocrisy  sweating  from  every  pore, 

And  dabbled  all  over  with  splashes  of  gore! 

Thy  grip  on  the  famishing  throat  of  the  Celt, 
Thy  foot  on  the  shrines  where  his  fathers  have  knelt; 
Thy  spies  at  his  fireside,  thy  hounds  on  his  track, 
Thy  sword  in  his  bosom,  thy  stripes  on  his  back  ! 

But  the  sigh  of  the  parent,  the  sob  of  the  child, 

The  breasts  which  are  milkless,  the  eyes  that  look  wild, 

The  hunger  and  nakedness,  sorrow  and  pain, 

The  famine  of  body  and  fever  of  brain, 

Which — piled  like  a  pyramid  unto  the  skies — 
Convict  thee  of  robbery,  murder,  and  lies, 

96 


Ireland's  Misrule 

Pluck  bitterer  woes  upon  thee  than  thy  wrath, 
At  its  blackest  and  worst,  can  hurl  into  his  path. 

Thy  heel  upon  Ireland;  but  lo!  upon  thee 

The  curse  of  her  children,  wherever  they  be! 

Thy  chains  on  her  limbs,  thy  clenched  fist  in  her  face, 

But  on  thee  the  dark  shame  and  damning  disgrace! 

Still  with  fire  and  falsehood  defend  as  thou  wilt 
The  wrong  and  the  outrage,  the  crime  and  the  guilt; 
And  still  with  glib  rhetoric  varnish  the  lie, 
And  still  fling  the  flails  of  Oppression  on  high; 

But  the  wrong  will  not  prosper,  the  crime  not  endure; 
For  Fate — Heaven's  stern  headsmen — though  silent,  is 

sure;  , 

And  never  in  all  the  long  lapse  of  the  past 
Did  a  tyranny  grow  but  it  withered  at  last. 

It  withered  and  shriveled,  it  tottered  and  fell, 
Mid  bloody  dishonor  and  ruin  of  hell; 
With  hisses  for  requiems,  hootings  for  tears, 
Accursed  and  abhorred  through  the  evermore  years. 

Play  fast  and  loose  then,  O  England,  and  still 
Make  sharper  the  rack  and  more  grievous  the  ill; 
Bribe,  bully  and  trample,  defy  and  defraud, 
Yet  thou  bribest  not  Justice,  thou  tramplest  not  God. 

97 


SONGS  OF 
LOVE  AND 
CIRCUMSTANCE 


KANSAS 

1856. 

LIKE  the  soft  hand  of  love  falls  the  air  on  my  brow, 
And  sweet  are  the  memories  clasping  me  now, 
And  holy  as  life  is  the  beauty  that  thrills 
Thro'  the  hearts  of  the  valleys,  the  views  of  the  hills, 

And  sacred  my  home  o'er  the  far  away  sea; 
Yet  dearer  than  all  is  dear  Kansas  to  me. 

O  she  draws  me  and  awes  me  with  truth  and  with  light, 
As  a  Poet  is  drawn  by  the  stars  of  the  night, 

And  she  touches  the  quick  of  my  soul  till  it  swims 
On  a  sea  of  pure  glory  and  blossoming  hymns. 

And  I  love  her  with  beauty  that  seems  to  excel 
The  grandeur  of  heaven  and  the  terrors  of  hell. 

But  not  for  the  lavishing  riches  she  owns, 

And  not  for  the  wealth  of  her  mountainous  thrones, 

And  not  for  the  forests  that  girdle  her  streams, 
Nor  her  plains  that  melt  as  the  amber  of  dreams, 

And  not  for  the  spirit-like  swell  of  her  slopes, 
Do  I  crown  her  with  all  the  delights  of  my  hopes. 

101 


Kansas 

But  for  her  queenliness,  shown  in  the  time 
When  her  raiment  was  soiled  by  the  fingers  of  crime, 

When  the  green  of  her  gardens  was  spattered  with  red, 
And  the  terraces  dripped  with  the  blood  of  her  dead, 

And  her  widows  and  orphans  sat  wringing  their  hands, 
While  malice  and  murder  stalked  over  her  lands. 


For  the  storm  which  flashed  from  her  beautiful  eyes 
When  her  peerless  affection  was  tempted  with  lies; 

For  the  blow  that  she  dealt  in  the  treacherous  face 
Of  the  robber  and  spoiler  who  stood  in  her  place; 

And  the  joy  of  her  tears,  like  the  sun  on  the  mists, 

When   she   passed   to  the   torture  with  chains   on  her 
wrists. 


For  the  majesty  wreathing  the  steps  of  her  youth, 
And  all  of  her  loveliness,  all  of  her  truth; 

For  all  the  deep  lessons  of  wisdom  she  taught, 
And  for  all  the  great  deeds  which  her  strong  hands 
have  wrought; 

O,  for  this  do  I  leap  at  the  sound  of  her  name, 

And  love  her  with  love  that  mounts  upward  like  flame. 


102 


FATHER-LOVE 

O    EARTH  is  full  of  lovely  things 
Which  our  dear  Father-God  has  made, 
Of  buds  and  blooms  and  gleaming  wings, 
And  bursts  of  light  and  depths  of  shade. 

O,  thick  across  the  purple  skies 
The  wondrous  flashing  stars  are  strewn, 
And  bright  with  cherub-children's  eyes 
The  glowing  world  is  overgrown. 

But  never,  in  the  woods  at  noon, 

Or  underneath  the  stars  at  night, 
Or  in  the  low  sweet  vales  of  June, 

Or  on  the  mountain's  upper  height, — 
O,  never  thrilled  my  blood  so  much, 

And  never  leaped  my  heart  so  wild, 
As  when  I  bowed  my  head  to  touch 

The  sweet  lips  of  my  first-born  child. 

O,  in  the  unspeakable  baptism 

Of  that  strange  love  that  o'er  me  stole, 

How  streamed  the  sacred,  solemn  chrism 
Thro'  all  the  fibers  of  my  soul! 
103 


Father-Love 

And  every  silent  yearning  hope 
Shot  outward  into  sudden  speech, 

And  when  I  drew  my  horoscope 

The  stars  were  close  within  my  reach. 

Ay!  and  I  know  that  evermore 

I  have  held  higher  talk  with  heaven, 
In  deeper  whispers  than  before 

That  large  new  blessedness  was  given. 
I  could  not  part  her  precious  hair 

Nor  look  upon  her  sacred  eyes, 
And  not  within  my  full  soul  swear 

To  mark  her  steps  in  Paradise. 

I  hear  her  low  voice  in  the  hall, 

Her  liquid  laugh  among  the  flowers; 
And  pulse  leaps  unto  pulse,  and  all 

My  life  goes  seeking  her  for  hours. 
And  when  she  rises  to  my  knee 

And  lightly  nestles  toward  my  cheek 
With  love  that  clings  so  utterly, 

I  clasp  her,  but  I  can  not  speak. 

O,  mid  the  tumult  of  the  town, 

The  care  the  canker  and  the  doubt, 

And  when  the  flaming  sun  goes  down, 
And  when  the  holy  stars  are  out; 

104 


To  a  Friend 

In  the  great  stillness  of  the  night, 
And  in  the  front  of  garish  day, 

She  wraps  me  like  a  robe  of  light, 
And  turns  to  spirit  all  my  clay. 

God  bless  my  child!  I  never  knew 

Life's  vastness  until  she  was  born. 
God  bless  my  child!  and  keep  her  true 

Through  all  her  deeper-widening  morn. 
O,  reach  Thy  Hand  out  through  the  years 

And  hold  her  near  Thee  undented; 
And  give  her  oil  of  joy  for  tears, 

And  Father,  Father!  bless  my  child. 


TO   A   FRIEND 

A  MANY  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Dear  friend,  since  you  and  I 
First  felt  our  two  souls  strangely  drawn 
Together  utterly. 

A  many  glorious  promise-days, 
And  sacred  star-crowned  heights, 

Since  we  stood  thrilling  in  the  blaze 
Of  new  love's  golden  lights. 

105 


A  Picture 

And  purely  as  a  Sabbath  psalm, 

And  grandly  as  the  sea, 
Throughout  all  moods  of  storm  and  calm, 

Your  soul  has  clung  to  me. 

And  I,  amid  the  whirl  and  roar 
Of  strifes  where  I  have  striven, 

Have  kept  unsinned  forever  more 
The  glory  it  hath  given. 

So,  when  the  great  waves  separate 

Our  closely  clasped  hands, 
And  we  go  forth  to  work  and  wait 

In  far  off  hopeful  lands; 

Then  in  all  times  of  ill  and  good, 

All  hours  of  joy  and  woe, 
God  bless  our  holy  brotherhood 

Wherever  we  may  go. 


A  PICTURE 

BEAUTIFUL!  beautiful!     The  great  round  moon 
Hangs  among  the  stars  upon  the  verge  of  heaven, 
Like  a  vast  hope  within  a  boundless  soul 

1 06 


A  Picture 

Brimful  of  lofty  majesty;  the  stars 

Wait  on  her  steps,  as  glowing  pages  wait 

Upon  a  gorgeous  queen. 

Onward  she  sweeps, 

With  regal  footsteps  up  the  vaulted  sky, 
Beaming  fair  smiles  on  all  her  satellites 
As  on  a  meek  suitor  beams  a  peerless  maid. 
Far  in  the  West  the  glowing  heavens  bend  down 
Kissing  the  sunset  hills,  as  one  betrothed 
Embraces  his  beloved. 

To  the  South  and  dim, 
The  grand  old  Ocean,  dark  and  deep, 
Spreads  out  like  an  eternity;  one  ship 
With  her  white  folded  wings  lies  anchored  there, 
Like  an  angel  sleeping  on  the  breast  of  God. 
Hidden  in  yon  thicket,  hark!  the  nightingale 
Pours  her  wild  music  in  the  ear  of  night, 
Till  it  seems  drunk  with  joy.     Hark!  how  the  excess 
Of  her  sweet  song  streams  thrilling  from  her  soul 
Sweet  as  the  music  of  an  angel's  harp 
Attuned  by  Gabriel's  hand. 

How  mystical 

And  dreamlike  comes  the  murmur  of  the  stream 
That  babbles  through  the  valley!    It  is  like 
A  virgin  beauty,  who  in  bridal  dreams 
Vaguely  and  in  half  words  tells  unto  the  night 
The  secret  of  her  soul. 

107 


Burns 

The  panting  breeze 

Throbs  tremulous  on  yon  green  hill  of  pines, 
Like  the  hopeful  shuddering  of  a  stripling's  heart, 
Earnest,  yet  all  untried. 

Far-off  I  see 

The  red  fires  gleaming  in  the  village  homes, 
Flashing  their  strange  lights  even  at  my  feet, 
As  prophets  flash  their  stirring  flaming  thoughts 
Across  the  mists  of  time. 

The  green  earth  sleeps 
'  Neath  the  eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  fair  girl 
On  whose  white  finger  the  betrothal  ring, 
Graven  with  her  lover's  name  and  set  with  gems, 
Lies  glittering  like  the  stars.     For  thus  hath  God 
Put  this  high  name  upon  the  virgin  Earth 
Whom  he  will  some  day  wed! 


BURNS 

A   LITTLE  bird  with  gorgeous  wing 
And  notes  of  sweet  imagining, 
Carolled  away  one  sunny  spring 

Carelessly  wild. 

In  truth,  he  was  a  wanton  thing, 
Nature's  own  child! 

108 


Bums 

Beneath  a  shady  tree  one  day 
Were  met  some  lords  and  ladies  gay 
Who  came  to  pass  the  hours  away 

And  time  beguile, 
While  he  upon  the  leafiest  spray 
Sang  all  the  while. 

So  soft  his  song,  and  aye  so  free, 

So  full  of  nature's  melody 

And  truth  and  trust  and  sympathy, 

That  those  who  heard 
Marveled  such  magic  notes  should  be 

Found  in  a  bird. 

The  rich  command  when  they  entreat, 
For  he  who  sang  so  passing  sweet 
Flew  down  upon  the  ground  to  meet 

Their  specious  smiles, 
And  soon,  alas!  his  little  feet 

Were  in  the  toils. 

They  took  him  to  the  town,  and  there 
Displayed  their  wondrous  prisoner 
To  all  the  noble  and  the  fair 

Who  chose  to  see 
That  native  of  the  mountain  air, 

That  prodigy. 

109 


Burns 

So  every  one  who  came  would  bring 
More  flattery  for  that  songster-thing! 
And  then  they'd  ask  to  hear  him  sing. 

While  he  complied, 
They'd  pluck  a  feather  from  his  wing 

And  slyly  hide! 

At  length,  as  human  nature  will, 

They  tired  when  they  had  had  their  fill, 

Cared  not  to  know  his  matchless  skill, 

But  passed  him  by; 
When  he,  disgusted  with  his  ill, 

Essayed  to  fly. 

But  ah!  he  could  not.     Never  more, 
Whilst  sweetly  singing,  might  he  soar 
Heavenward,  as  oft  he  did  before. 

Man's  praise  he  drank. 
Flattery  from  him  his  pinions  tore 

And  so — he  sank! 

Alas!  alas!     Such  was  the  fate 
Of  Burns,  the  noble,  not  the  great. 
He  grasped  at  flattery's  cursed  bait, 

And  so  his  life 
Was  crushed  beneath  fell  sorrow's  weight 

And  sickening  strife! 


TWO 

To  Mary  P.  Nimmo 

1WAS  a  poet;  and  sometimes, 
When  the  lyric  impulse  touched  my  lips, 
I  sang  my  cheery  and  homely  rhymes 

Of  simple  loves  and  fellowships. 
She  was  of  those  whose  presence  brings 

A  sense  of  the  peace  we  can  recall 

In  our  far-off,  angel-haunted  springs, — 

So  I  stood  dreaming;  that  was  all. 

My  heart  was  parched  with  terrible  drouth, 

Her  heart  with  pity  was  dewy-sweet, 
And  ever  around  her  sacred  youth 

All  things  holy  and  fair  did  meet. 
O,  in  what  meek  unconscious  mood 

She  wore  the  beautiful  coronal 
Of  her  perfect  gracious  womanhood! — 

So  I  stood  dreaming;  that  was  all. 

Closer  and  closer,  nigher  and  nigher, 
Something  drew  me  each  day  to  her, 

And  I  dreamed  (O  passionate  heart  of  fire!) 
That  I  was  not  shut  in  a  sepulcher, 

in 


Two 

Stifling  forever  a  moaning  cry, 

Lest  haply  my  heaviness  should  fall 
Upon  brooding  lovers  passing  by — 

Thus  I  stood  dreaming;  that  was  all. 

O  tender  face  I  kiss  in  the  night, 

When  I  glide  in  sleep  through  my  prison  bars, 
And  my  spirit  walks  erect  in  the  light, 

In  the  dawn  of  the  everlasting  stars! 
O,  eyes  of  sweet  austerity! 

O  tender  voice  that  thrilled  in  the  hall 
Like  the  sound  of  flutes  on  the  open  sea! — 

So  I  stand  dreaming;  that  is  all. 

0  serene  lowliness  of  mien, 

0  balmy  spiritual  effluence, 
That  made  the  air  about  her  clean 

With  smells  of  Eden-innocence, 
So  that  all  evil  things  in  the  street 

Crouched,  when  she  passed,  in  the  shade  of  the  wall, 
That  else  were  stricken  dead  at  her  feet! — 

Yet  am  I  dreaming;  that  is  all. 

1  stand  here  now  in  the  dark  and  think; 

1  kneel  here  now  in  the  dark,  and  pray: 
"  O  Father!  I  will  be  strong  to  drink 

My  bitter  aloes,  if  thou  alway 

112 


Byron 

Wilt  shine  on  the  paths  her  feet  must  tread, 
So  that  no  hurt  nor  harming  shall 

Vex  one  dear  hair  of  her  precious  head." 
This  is  my  covenant;  that  is  all. 


BYRON 

HE  was  a  wild,  proud  youth,  with  fiery  eyes 
Which  but  ensphered  the  image  of  his  soul, 
A  thing  of  boundless  passion,  all  unwise 
As  tameless  steed  impatient  of  control, 
One  of  those  strange  incarnate  mysteries 
Whose  lives  like  waves  in  headlong  fury  roll 
Until,  arrested  by  some  sullen  rock, 
Their  hearts  are  smote  in  pieces  with  the  shock. 

A  burning  fever  lay  within  his  heart^ 

Heating  like  fire  the  blood  in  every  veix\ 

And  ever  and  anon  a  flash  would  start 

Like  lightning  from  his  heart  into  his  brain, 

And  lie  there  scorching,  like  a  fiery  dart, 

Till,  in  the  terrible  madness  of  his  pain, 

In  thoughts  like  those  by  which  himself  was  riven, 

He'd  hurl  his  enmity  at  God  and  Heaven. 


Life  and  Love 

But  he  was  wretched !  Poor  child,  he  could  not  pray. 
He  could  not  own  that  he  was  weak  and  vile. 
He  might  have  revelled  in  the  light  of  day, 
Yet  hugged  his  darkness  closer  all  the  while. 
And  so  he  let  life's  grandeur  glide  away, 
And  never  on  him  fell  one  hope,  one  smile. 
And  then  he  died!     As  he  had  lived  he  died, 
His  white  lips  curled  in  bitterness  and  pride. 

On  a  lone  rock,  amid  a  sea  of  souls, 

His  memory  like  a  solemn  specter  stands, 

And  as  in  mighty  waves  it  swells  and  rolls 

There — in  the  tempest  with  uplifted  hands 

It  warns  them  wildly  off  the  reefs  and  shoals. 

And  so  the  tide  streams  on  to  other  lands, 

And  evermore  within  its  memory  lies 

That  haggard  phantom  with  its  burning  eyes. 


LIFE   AND    LOVE 

THERE  is  something  to  live   for  and  something  to 
love 

Wherever  we  linger,  wherever  we  rove 
There  are  thousands  of  sad  ones  to  cheer  and  sustain 
Till  hopes  that  were  hidden  beam  o'er  them  again. 

114 


Song  of  Spring 

There  is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love, 
For  the  spirit  of  Man  is  like  garden  or  grove, 

It  will  yield  a  sweet  fragrance,  but  still  you  must  toil, 
And  cherish  the  blossoms,  and  culture  the  soil. 

There  is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love, 
'Tis  a  truth  which  the  misanthrope  ne'er  can  disprove, 

For  tho'  thorns  and  thistles  may  choke  up  the  flower, 
Some  beauty  will  grace  the  most  desolate  bower. 

Then  think  on  it,  brother,  wherever  thou  art, 

Let  the  l.'.fe  be  for  men  and  the  love  for  the  heart, 

For  know  that  the  pathway  which  leads  us  above 
Is  something  to  live  for  and  something  to  love. 


SONG  OF  SPRING 

MY  heart  goes  forth  to  meet  the  Spring 
With  the  step  of  a  bounding  roe, 
For  it  seems  like  the  touch  of  a  seraph's  wing 
When  the  pleasant  south  winds  blow. 

O,  I  love  the  loneliness  that  lies 

In  the  smiling  heart  of  May, 
The  beauty  throbbing  in  violet  eyes, 

The  breath  of  the  fragrant  hay. 


Letters  from  Home 

There's  a  great  calm  joy  in  the  song  of  birds, 
And  in  the  voice  of  the  streams, 

In  the  lowly  peace  of  flocks  and  herds, 
And  our  own  soul's  quiet  dreams. 

So  my  heart  goes  forth  to  meet  the  Spring 

As  a  lover  to  his  bride; 
And  over  us  both  there  broods  the  wing 

Of  the  angel  at  her  side. 


LETTERS  FROM   HOME 

LETTERS  from  my  father's  household, 
Isled  amid  the  far-off  sea, 
Swift-winged  messengers  of  gladness, 

Bearing  rest  and  peace  to  me. 
Father's  calm  and  sacred  counsel, 

Mother's  large  and  shining  tears, 
And  my  sister's  brimming  blessings 
Flung  across  the  mighty  years. 

Oh,  the  dear  and  loving  letters! 

Oh,  my  childhood's  thronging  dreams! 
Oh,  the  ancient  low-roofed  cottage, 

With  its  quaint  old  oaken  beams ! 

116 


I/etters  from  Home 

Oh,  the  haunts  among  the  meadows, 
And  the  moss-crowned  garden  seat, 

Where  the  scented  apple  blossoms 
Swept  in  waves  about  my  feet. 

And  I  sit  and  muse  upon  it 

Till  I  seem  to  see  it  all; 
See  the  rich  grapes'  purple  clusters 

Drooping  from  the  leafy  wall; 
See  the  mellow  pears  a-ripening, 

Breathe  the  breath  of  well-known  flowers, 
Watch  the  steady  house  clock  marking 

All  the  pulses  of  the  hours. 

Father's  hair  is  growing  whiter, 

Mother's  step  is  feebler  now, 
But  the  olden  queen-like  beauty 

Lingers  yet  around  her  brow; 
And  the  low,  sweet  tones  that  thrilled  me, 

And  the  lips  I  used  to  press, 
Oh,  the  years  can  never  win  them 

From  their  holy  tenderness! 

And  the  flashing  eyes  of  laughter, 
And  the  speech  of  merry  scorn, 

And  the  rippling  auburn  ringlets 
Of  our  household's  youngest  born, 

117 


Annunciation 

These  have  melted  and  have  deepened 

To  the  glory  and  the  grace 
Of  a  tranquil  maiden  moving 

Thoughtfully  amid  the  place. 

Letters  from  my  father's  household, 

Isled  amid  the  far-off  sea, 
Swift-winged  messengers  of  gladness, 

Bearing  rest  and  peace  to  me. 
Let  the  foaming  world  roar  onward, 

Let  the  sinless  children  play, 
And  the  young  bride  clasp  her  husband, 

I  am  wealthiest  to-day. 


ANNUNCIATION 

IS  the  grave  deep,  dear?     Deeper  still  is  Love. 
They  can  not  hide  thee  from  thy  Father's  heart. 
Thou  liest  below,  and  I  stand  here  above, 
Yet  we  are  not  apart. 

The  lyric  patter  of  the  little  feet 

That  made  a  poem  of  the  nursery  floor, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  dancing  toward  me  down  the  street, 
Are  with  me  evermore. 

118 


Annunciation 

My  breath  is  balmy  with  thy  clinging  kiss, 

My  hand  is  soft  where  thy  soft  fingers  lay, 
And  yet  there  is  a  something  which  I  miss 
And  mourn  for  night  and  day. 

Mine  eyes  ache  for  thee;  God's  heaven  is  so  high 

We  cannot  see  its  singers,  when  thou  dost 
With  thy  lark's  voice  make  palpitant  all  the  sky, 
I  moan  and  pain  the  most. 

Because  the  hunger  of  my  spirit  runs 

Most  swift  in  its  swift  asking  after  thee, 
I  yearn  through  all  the  systems  and  the  suns, 
But  none  doth  answer  me. 

O,  might  I  with  thee  fondle  for  an  hour! 

But  now  thou  art  too  sacred;  I  must  stand 

Silent  and  reverent:   thou  hast  grown  to  power, 

And  fitness  and  command. 

And  I  walk  here.     Thou  art  above  me  now: 

I  may  not  longer  teach  thee  anything. 
Thou  dost  not  heed  my  kisses  on  thy  brow, 
Nor  any  comforting. 

How  changed!  How  changed!     A  little  while  ago 
And  all  the  beautiful  vast  care  was  mine: 

lig 


Inspection 

Out  from  my  bosom  gushed  the  overflow 
Of  sacrificial  wine; 

And  now  thou  art  God's  angel  unto  me. 

Thus  His  ways  mix,  and  he  is  ever  good. 
Reach  me  thy  hand,  Wife;  we  are  held  all  three 
In  his  Infinitude. 


INSPECTION 

LET  them  rave  and  let  them  lie: 
What  is  that  to  you  and  I, 
Soul  of  mine — we  see  the  sky. 

In  these  silences  we  hark 
Something  singing,  and  do  mark 
Something  shining  in  the  dark. 

Though  we  bleed  beneath  the  knives 
Of  the  butcher,  in  our  lives 
Something  fragrant  yet  survives, 

Far  beyond  their  blades  of  ill, 
Brooding  very  calm  and  still, 
Something  which  they  can  not  kill. 

120 


Inspection 

Though  the  worn  flesh  fail  and  waste, 
Though  the  lees  have  bitter  taste, 
Though  the  past  be  interlaced, 

Well  I  know  that  at  the  last, 
When  the  sudden  hurt  is  past, 
Solemn  peace,  serene  and  vast, 

In  my  heart  will  nestle  so, 
That  I  shall  not  feel  nor  know 
Any  harm  or  any  woe. 

Sorrow  is  a  little  thing, 

Is  it  not,  Soul,  when  we  bring 

Conscience  unto  suffering  ? 

Though  at  first  we  swooned  in  death, 
Yet  when  we  had  caught  our  breath. 
And  were  squared  fourfold  in  faith, 

In  our  speech  was  no  more  moan, 
For  our  feet  were  firmly  grown, 
And  we  did  not  stand  alone. 

Comrade-soul,  we  see  and  hear 

Far  beyond  the  mists  unclear 

Of  the  dark  world's  doubt  and  fear. 

121 


Inspection 

Round  our  heads  the  great  stars  glow, 
We  can  hear  Life's  mystic  flow, 
See  its  widening  cycles  grow. 

And  the  Sages  and  the  Seers 

Of  the  immemorial  years, 

Since  the  earth  first  groaned  in  tears, 

Speak  unto  us  from  the  height, 
Summered  in  the  Infinite, 
Where  it  evermore  is  light. 

Wherefore  kissed  by  hallowing  lips, 
Held  in  strong  assuring  grips 
Of  anointed  fellowships, 

What  to  us  are  gibe  and  frown  ? 
What  have  we  to  cast  us  down? 
Soul,  arise,  assume  thy  crown: 

Turn  thy  features  from  the  wall, 
Make  thy  stature  proud  and  tall: 
See;  the  Lord  is  over  all. 


122 


DENUNCIATION 

OUT  upon  this  hollow  worship 
Of  the  grandeur  of  our  time; 
Out  upon  its  little  greatness, 

And  the  age's  false  sublime; 
Out  upon  the  brainless  braggarts 

Who  are  boasting  evermore 
Of  the  World's  emancipation 

From  the  thralling  gloom  of  yore. 

What  is  mind  save  when  it  giveth 

Wider  blessings,  deeper  good  ? 
What  is  Love  but  that  which  liveth 

For  a  human  brotherhood  ? 
Who  among  us  is  so  lowly 

That  "  himself  "  is  but  a  name  ? 
Whose  the  soul  so  pure  and  holy 

That  it  never  fawned  for  fame? 

Does  no  leper  robe  in  purple  ? 

Sits  no  villain   on  a  throne  ? 
Lives  no  Dives  in  this  present, 

And  is  Lazarus  unknown  ? 
Hath  the  Truth  a  patient  hearing  ? 

Spurns  no  one  a  mighty  thought? 

123 


Denunciation 

Passion,  reason,  impulse,  feeling, 
Do  we  use  them  as  we  ought  ? 

There  are  seething  hells  of  torment, 

When  the  worm  that  never  dies 
Revels  in  the  writhing  madness 

Of  the  doomed  one's  agonies: 
There  are  fields  of  crimson  horror, 

There  be  Golgothas  of  woe, 
And  a  sea  of  sin  and  sorrow 

Surges  wheresoe'er  we  go. 

Sycophants  still  sell  their  manhood, 

Human  things  that  cringe  and  crawl; 
Purse-proud  beggary  still  jostles 

Threadbare  merit  'gainst  the  wall : 
But  Life's  Carnival  moves  onward 

To  the  music  and  the  mirth; 
So  the  underlying  madness 

Seemeth  but  as  little  worth. 

Out,  then,  on  this  hollow  worship 

Of  the  grandeur  of  our  times; 
Out  upon  our  little  greatness, 

And  the  age's  false  sublime: 
Whoso  breathes  the  breath  of  boasting 

He  is  traitor  to  his  trust; 
He  alone  who,  toiling  ever, 

Fainteth  nevermore,  is  just. 

124 


VOICE  OF  PROGRESS 

BY  Heaven!  it  is  a  shameful  thing 
That,  in  this  age  of  deepening  might, 
There  live  so  few  whose  souls  dare  cling 

Forever  to  the  right! 
By  Heaven!  it  is  a  crying  sin 

That,  in  this  hour  of  ripening  thought. 
Where  so  much  greatness  lies  within, 
So  little  is  outwrought. 


The  world  is  full  of  puling  fools 

Who  prate  of  love  in  sickening  rhymes, 
Or  bring  stale  tomes  of  trusty  rules 

To  curb  the  chafing  times  ; 
But  where  be  they  whose  prophet-souls 

Outlooking  on  life's  Ocean  waves, 
Do  warn  us  of  the  rocks  and  shoals 

Which  else  become  our  graves  ? 

What  care  we  for  our  father's  creed  ? 

What  reck  we  of  the  ancient  themes? 
Is  Truth  less  true  in  newer  deeds 

Than  in  decrepit  dreams  ? 
125 


Voice  of  Progress 

All  honor  to  our  brave  old  Sires — 
The  unforgotten,  worthy  dead; 

Yet  shall  our  loftier  desires 
Be  on  their  dulness  fed  ? 


Give  us  new  Truth  altho'  it  break 

Upon  us  with  the  lightning's  flash! 
Give  us  new  Truth!     The  Nations  quake 

Beneath  the  shifting  crash. 
Give  us  new  Truth!     Our  souls  despise 

This  blinding  rush  of  deadly  strife. 
Past  forms  of  Truth  are  present  lies 

Which  canker  all  our  life. 


Therefore,  new  Truth!     And  let  it  burst 

Like  red-hot  thunderbolts  on  those 
In  whom  this  fair  world  stands  a  curse 

With  such  a  hell  of  woes! 
New  Truth!     Which  ever  more  shall  right 

Earth's  wronged  and  patient  multitude; 
And  robe  us  all  in  rare  delight 

Of  deep  and  earnest  good. 


126 


COMFORT 

ONE  by  one  World's  harms  are  smitten; 
One  by  one  its  ripe  wrongs  fall; 
One  by  one  are  carved  and  written 

Man's  sure  triumph  over  all. 
One  by  one  the  desert  places 

Grow  with  green  and  gush  with  light, 
One  by  one  God's  finger  traces 
Moons  and  stars  across  the  night. 

One  by  one  the  cruel  fetters 

Of  the  tyrant  flesh  slide  off; 
One  by  one  we  learn  the  letters 

Of  the  alphabet  of  love. 
One  by  one  the  propped  pretenses 

Of  usurping  falsehoods  die; 
One  by  one  new  recompenses 

Fill  our  voids  up  in  the  sky. 

One  by  one  our  days  of  weaningf 

From  things  earthly  go  toward 
Gorgeous  harvest-days  of  gleaning 

In  the  full  tracts  of  the  Lord. 

127 


Comfort 

One  by  one  the  needs  and  gnawings 
Of  old  hungers  fail  and  pass; 

One  by  one  the  Heaven's  dear  strawings 
Bless  our  fields  of  barren  grass. 


Spite  of  weary  months  of  sorrow, 

Spite  of  long  and  laden  years, 
Bitter  waitings  for  the  morrow 

Wherein  lieth  joy  for  tears; 
Spite  of  tired  hearts  plowed  with  trouble, 

Spite  of  blighting  and  of  blame, 
Spite  of  wastes  of  stones  and  stubble, 

Spite  of  paths  of  woe  and  shame, 


Spite  of  whatsoever  evils 
Make  the  sacred  places  foul, 

Spite  of  whatsoever  devils 
Dog  the  footsteps  of  the  soul, 


Though  the  earth  be  still  unshriven, 
Though  the  years  seem  still  undone, 

Yet  shall  all,  save  man  and  Heaven, 
Pass  and  perish,  one  by  one. 


128 


LIFE'S  DOWER 

IN    truth  it  is  a  lovely  dower — 
This  nerve  and  brain,  and  blood  and  bone, 
This  leaping  sense  of  kingly  power 

In  hearts  which  be  full  grown. 
In  truth  but  they  be  glorious  things — 

These  loves  and  hates  and  deep  desires, 
The  thoughts  that  stride  the  lightning  wings, 
The  spirit's  gleaming  fires. 


'Tis  a  rare  gift — this  fresh  warm  life, 

This  upward  yearning  of  the  eye, 
This  soul  that  thrills  unto  the  strife 

That  rolls  like  thunder  by. 
By  Heaven!  I  can  not  understand 

How  breathe  these  ideas  of  our  time, 
These  cowards  of  the  lily  hand, 

When  life  is  so  sublime. 


O,  is  it  not  a  deep  delight 

To  hurl  the  death  at  crime  and  wrong, 
And,  black  and  bloody  with  the  fight, 

Grow  stronger  and  more  strong  ? 

129 


Life's  Dower 

To  spur  right  on  the  weltering  heaps 
Of  cloven  sins  and  gasping  lies, 

And  mark  the  quivering  limbs  and  lips, 
The  dull  and  glaring  eyes  ? 

O,  brings  it  not  a  boundless  bliss 

To  snatch  some  pale  and  trembling  truth 
From  leprous  lust  whose  hellish  kiss 

Had  poisoned  all  of  youth  ? 
To  wash  her  feet  and  bathe  her  eyes, 

And  smooth  her  wild  dishevelled  hair, 
And  rain  our  hottest  sympathies 

Like  oil  on  her  despair? 

Ay  brothers!  'tis  a  blessed  thing — 

This  leaping  life,  this  mounting  blood, 
These  subtile  fires  that  do  cling 

To  God's  infinitude: 
And,  brothers,  shall  we  live  like  drones, 

And  let  the  rust  gnaw  out  our  night, 
While  all  the  green  earth's  royal  sons 

Form  battle  for  the  right  ? 


130 


THE  INAUGURATION 

March  Fourth,  1857 

VERY  wanly  to  the  eastward  breaks    the    morning 
cold  and  gray, 
Very  spectral  seem  the  shadowed  people  moving  down 

the  way, 

Very  feebly  will  the  sunlight  chance  upon  the  hills 
to-day. 

Very  loudly  do  the  silver  trumpets  ring  throughout  the 
street, 

Very  grandly  fall  the  measured  marches  of  the  throng 
ing  feet, 

Very  hoarse  are  all  the  voices  of  the  beings  whom  I 
meet. 


And  the  mighty  thunderous  echoes  of  the  cannon  crash 

and  boom 
Like  the  roar  of  coming  people  speaking  to  us  through 

the  gloom, 
And  the  startling  noises  shake  the  pictures  hanging  in 

my  room. 

131 


The  Inauguration 

Very  proudly  float  the  silken  colors  on  the  Capitol, 
Very  firmly  does  the  old  man  tread  across  the  Senate 

Hall, 
Very  bland  and  very  gracious  is  the  smile  he  smiles  on 

all. 

Lo!  before  our  sacred  Country's  solemn  altar  see  him 

stand, 
With  the  Book  of  flaming  wisdom  lying  open  in  his 

hand, 
Swearing  that  in  calm-souled  justice  he  will  judge  and 

rule  the  land. 


And  the  eyes  of  staring  thousands  bend  in  wonder  on 
the  sight, 

And  the  hum  of  human  voices  cleaveth  upward  thro* 
the  light, 

And  the  maddening  waves  of  music  drown  the  moan- 
ings  of  the  night. 

Very  courtly  are  the  courtiers  who  have  snatched  the 

gifts  of  chance, 
Very  brightly  gleam  the  jewels  of  the  movers  in  the 

dance, 
Very  calmly  from  the  fresco  does  the  unknown  hand 

advance. 

133 


The  Inauguration 

And  the  naked  fiery   fingers  write  upon    the  ballroom 

wall: 

Lo!  it  is  the  song  of  many  god-like  spirits  held  in  thrall, 
Suffering  deadly  damning  scourges  for  the  human  rights 

of  all. 


In  the  newer  fields  of  Freedom,  where  its  last  apostles 

stood, 
Glare  the  serpent  eyes  of  Hatred,  lie  the  pools  of  clotted 

blood; 
And  a  stifling  cry  of  murder  shudders  at  the  gates  of 

God. 


And  the  Mother  with  her  children  sits  and  starves  upon 

the  plain, 
As  the  ghastly  gory  gash  that  cast  her  husband  with 

the  slain 
Swings  before  her  eyes  forever,  splitting  thro'  her  heart 

and  brain. 


And  the  smoke  of  burning  hamlets  blackens  all  the 
blessed  air, 

While  the  savage  shouts  of  reeking  devils  in  their 
slaughter-lair 

Mingle  with  the  shivering  shrieks  of  trampled  virgin- 
hood's  despair. 

133 


The  Inauguration 

And  the  clattering  fetters  fester  on  the  brothers  and  the 

sons 

Who  have  battled  for  their  Israel  in  the  later  Ajalons, 
And    the    purple    darkly   trickles    down    the    swooning 

champions. 

Foemen  smear  upon  our  foreheads  bitter  marks  of  fear 
and  shame; 

And  they  trail  their  leprous  fingers  o'er  our  Mother- 
Freedom's  name, 

Till  the  hot  blood  driving  through  us  sets  our  very 
breath  aflame. 


Where   is  judgment  that  it  lingers  through   the  years 

thus  overlong  ? 
Where    is    Justice    that    she    comes    not    fronting    the 

accursed  wrong, 
In  whose  choking  grasp  her  righteous  infant  struggles 

to  be  strong  ? 


O,  not  evermore  with   triumph   shall   inhuman   feet   be 

shod, 
Nor  our  heart's  dewdrip  forever  from  the  slaver's  evil 

rod, 
And    not    always    shall  hell's  scoffing  banner  flout  the 

skies  of  God. 

134 


A  Soul's  Despair 

For  through  all  the  mournful  midnights,  keeping  solemn 

watch  and  ward, 
Stands  the  silent  sleepless  Angel  noting  all  the  deeds 

abhorred; 
And  the  hour  of  wrath  and  ransom  ripens  surely,  saith 

the  Lord! 


A  SOUL'S  DESPAIR 

I   THINK  God's  ban  is  on  me.     I  believe, 
For  some  unknown  wrong  which  doth  make  me  foul, 
His  dread  retributive  thunders  cling  and  cleave, 

Closer  than  Nessus'  shirt  did,  to  my  soul, 
Which,  like  a  hounded  felon  fugitive, 

Goes  staggering  over  beds  of  burning  coal, 
In  lands  where  dragons  howl  and  serpents  hiss, 
And  no  green  grass  or  blessed  water  is. 

All  blessings  which  enrich  the  lives  of  men 

Dissolve  from  me  like  phantoms.     Kith  or  kin, 

Wife,  child,  nor  any  one  to  love  me,  when 
I  cry  out  from  the  coils  of  pain  wherein 

My  breath  is  strangled,  have  I;  no,  nor  then, 
When  the  worst  devils  tempt  me,  can  I  win 

One  pitying  gleam  from  the  stern  heavens,  which  fling 

My  prayer  back  to  me  as  a  leprous  thing. 

135 


A  Soul's  Despair 

The  benedictions  which  I  give  bring  down 
On  beings  whom  I  love  a  woe  instead; 

My  smile  is  darker  than  a  mother's  frown; 
Whatever  flowers  I  look  upon  fall  dead, 

Blasted  by  my  hot  dreariness;  if  I  crown 

A  forehead  with  my  kiss,  straightway  is  spread 

A  pall  across  it  ;  and  whene'er  I  thirst 

God  smites  me  backward,  reeling  and  accurst. 


Before  my  lips  are  moistened,  round  my  feet, 
Black  horror  on  conflagration  of  hell-fire 

Scares  off,  with  dread  plenipotence  of  heat, 
Whatever  tender  human  hands  aspire 

To  touch  me  softly,  or  what  lips  would  greet, 

With  confronting  whispers  of  calm  hopes,  the  dire 

Dumb  aching  of  the  life  that  only  craves 

A  little  room  among  the  Earth's  dear  graves; 


A  little  mound  among  the  hillocks,  where 
In  quiet  peace  the  sacred  daisies  grow, 

And  all  the  noises  that  perplex  the  air, 

The  sobs  and  shoutings  eddying  to  and  fro, 

World's  harm,  and  hunger,  and  sublime  despair, 
Unto  the  placid  sleepers  there  below, 

Are  as  if  such  things  were  not,  pillowed  so 

In  that  great  rest  which  but  the  dead  can  know. 

136 


A  Soul's  Despair 

O,  happy  dead!  for  whom  the  solemn  feuds 
Of  the  immortal  soul  with  flesh  and  clay, 

The  infinite  reaching  toward  far  altitudes, 

The  downward  dragging  lapses,  the  mad  sway 

Of  the  wild  passions,  and  the  interludes 
In  which  all  holy  props  are  stricken  'way, 

And  the  world  spins  in  darkness,  have  given  place 

To  an  unruffled  calm  of  heart  and  face. 


There  wronged  and  wronging,  conqueror  and  slave, 
All  anguish  over,  in  sweet  concord  lie, — 

The  poet  with  the  soaring  wings  that  clave 
The  subtle  ether  of  the  intensest  sky; 

They  whom  the  bitter  poisoned  arrows  drave 
To  desperation  and  were  slain  thereby; 

Young  child  and  hoary  grandsire:  O,  ye  dead, 

How  by  the  living  are  ye  envied. 


Lo,  also,  through  these  heavy  laden  years, 
My  feet  have  sought  you  reverently;  not 

Because  I  shrank  back  from  the  strain  that  wears 
The  heart  out  slowly,  nor  because  the  lot 

Assigned  me  was  sown  thickly  with  salt  tears. 
In  all  my  past  my  spirit  never  sought 

Surcease  from  sorrow  by  the   trick  of  fear; 

What  I  have  borne  I  still  am  strong  to  bear. 

137 


A  Soul's  Despair 

Nathless,  because  a  voice  I  could  not  still 

Pleaded  within  me  like  a  little  child 
Against  the  sense  of  failure  to  fulfil 

My  meanings,  and  the  promptings  that  defiled 
The  white  ideals  which  I  could  not  kill 

Nor  thrust  out  from  my  vision;  balked  and  foiled 
Alike  in  hopes  that  climbed  and  aims  that  crept, 
I  sought  if  haply  I  might  intercept 


My  travail  with  sound  sleeping.     Therefore  I 
(And  partly  that  the  cause  was  beautiful), 

When  the  thick  smoke  of  battle  quenched  the  sky 
And  the  air  shrieked  with  flame,  and  terrible 

Lightnings  of  wrath  blazed  in  the  human  eye, 
And  the  breath  heaved  with  vengeance,  and  the  dull 

Soul  of  the  slave  shot  blossoming  into  fire, 

And  cowards  were  kings  beneath  the  sovran  ire 


That  crowned  their  foreheads  royally,  have  been 
Among  the  foremost  in  the  bloody  gaps 

Where  foot  set  fixedly  to  foot,  and  keen 
Opposing  steel  played,  while  the  thunder 

Of  the  hot  cannon  made  the  hills  careen 

To  their  uttermost  foundations,  and  the  laps 

Of  the  green  valleys  were  piled  deep  with  those 

Whom  nevermore  the  bugle-call  might  rouse; 

138 


Death  and  Desolation 

Nor  the  torn  banners,  reared  along  the  line, 
Set  their  blood  tingling  grandly  in  the  shock 

Of  charging  hosts  made  drunken  with  the  wine 
Compelled  from  grapes  of  that  immortal  stock 

God  plants  in  all  men's  vineyards,  for  a  sign 
That  there  is  vintage  in  us  which  doth  mock 

The  mildew  of  all  ages,  and  ferments 

As  the  wine  which  the  gods  drank  in  the  rents. 


DEATH  AND   DESOLATION 

DEAD— DEAD! 
I  shall  never  die  I  fear. 
O  heart  so  sore  bestead, 
O  hunger  never  fed, 
O  life  uncomforted. 

It  is  drear,  very  drear! 
I  am  cold. 


The  sunshine  glorifying  all  the  hills; 
The  children  dancing  'mong  the  daffodils; 
The  thrush-like  melodies  of  maidens'  lips, 
Brooding  thanksgiving  o'er  dear  fellowships ; 
The  calm  compassions  and  benignities 

139 


Death  and  Desolation 

Of  souls  fast  anchored  in  translucent  seas; 
The  visible  radiance  of  the  Invisible, 
Far  glimpses  of  the  Perfect  Beautiful, 
Haunting  the  Earth  with  Heaven — they  warm  not  me; 
The  low-voiced  winds  breathe  very  soothingly, 
Yet  I  am  cold. 


Years — years. 

So  long  the  dread  companionship  of  pain. 
So  long  the  slow  compression  of  the  brain, 
So  long  the  bitter  famine  and  the  drouth, 
So  long  the  ache  for  kisses  on  the  mouth, 
So  long  the  straining  of  hot  tearless  eyes 
In  backward  looking  upon  Paradise, 
So  long  tired  feet  dragged  faltering  and  slow, 
So  long  the  solemn  sanctity  of  woe. 

Years — years. 

Perhaps 

There  was  a  void  in  Heaven,  which  only  she 
Of  all  God's  saintliest  could  fill  perfectly; 
Perhaps  for  too  close  clinging — too  much  sense 
Of  loving  and  of  Love's  Omnipotence, 
I  was  stripped  bare  of  gladness,  like  a  tree 
By  the  black  thunder  blasted.     It  may  be 
I  was  not  worthy — that  some  inner  flaw, 
Which  but  the  eye  of  the  Omniscient  saw, 

140 


Death  and  Desolation 

Ran  darkling  through  me,  making  me  unclean. 
I  know  not;  but  I  know  that  what  hath  been, 
The  thrill,  the  rapture,  the  intense  repose 
Which  but  the  passion-sceptered  spirit  knows, 
The  heart's  great  halo  lighting  up  the  days, 
The  breath  all  incense  and  the  lips  all  praise, 
Can  be  no  more  forever;  that  what  is, 
Drear  suffocation  in  a  drear  abyss, 
Lean  hands  outstretcht  toward  the  dark  profound, 
Starved  ears  vain  listening  for  a  tender  sound, 
The  set  lips  choking  back  the  desolate  cry 
Wrung  from  the  soul's  forlornest  agony, 
Will  last  until  the  props  of  Being  fall, 
And  the  green  grave's  deep  quiet  covers  all. 
Perhaps  the  violets  will  blossom  then 
O'er  me  as  sweetly  as  o'er  other  men. 
Perhaps. 

j 

It  is  most  sad, 

This  crumbling  into  chaos  and  decay. 
My  heart  aches;  and  I  think  I  shall  go  mad 
Some  day — some  day. 


141 


HYMN  OF  PITTSBURG 

MY  father  was  a  mighty  Vulcan; 
I  am  Smith  of  the  land  and  sea; 
The  cunning  spirit  of  Tubal-Cain 

Came  with  my  marrow  to  me. 
I  think  great  thoughts,  strong-winged  with  steel, 

I  coin  vast  iron  acts, 

And  orb  the  impalpable  dreams  of  seers 
Into  comely,  lyric  facts. 

I  am  Monarch  of  all  the  Forges, 

I  have  solved  the  riddle  of  fire, 
The  Amen  of  Nature  to  cry  of  Man, 

Answers  at  my  desire. 
I  search  with  the  subtle  soul  of  flame 

The  heart  of  the  rocky  Earth, 
And  hot  from  my  anvils  the  prophecies 

Of  the  miracle-years  leap  forth. 

I  am  swart  with  the  soots  of  my  furnace, 

I  drip  with  the  sweats  of  toil; 
My  fingers  throttle  the  savage  wastes, 

I  tear  the  curse  from  the  soil. 
I  fling  the  bridges  across  the  gulfs 

That  hold  us  from  the  To-Be, 
And  build  the  roads  for  the  bannered  march 

Of  crowned  humanity. 

142 


ENTREATY 

Written  on  leaving  New  York  for  Kansas  in  1856 

^^  OMETIMES  when  the  wind  goes  roaring 
^}     Thro'  the  city's  streets  and  lanes. 
And  the  homeless  night  is  pouring 

Blind  tears  on  your  window  panes; 
When  you  shudder  for  the  sailor, 

Cast  on  the  moaning  sea, 
And  the  stranger  in  the  forest — 

Then,  beloved,  think  of  me. 

Sometimes  when  the  poet's  verses 

Thrill  you  with  a  sudden  awe, 
And  dim,  yearning  depths  of  wonder 

Throb  on  every  breath  you  draw; 
When  his  mighty  anthem  singing 

Of  our  high  humanity, 
Parts  your  lips  with  fear  and  trembling — 

Then,  beloved,  think  of  me. 

Sometimes  when  you  chance  on  stories 

Of  a  calm-eyed  little  band, 
Who,  in  frost  and  fire  and  famine, 

Were  still  faithful  to  the  land; 

143 


Expectancy 

Who,  through  all  the  bloody  tortures 

Of  a  damning  tyranny, 
Bore  the  draggled  robes  of  Freedom — 

Then,  beloved,  think  of  me. 

Think  of  me!  1  hear  the  voices 
Of  the  struggle  sweeping  on, 

And  I  feel  my  mounting  spirit 
Leap  within  me  to  be  gone; 

But  beneath  no  crown  of  sorrow, 
In  no  pride  of  victory, 

Can  my  heart  forget  its  yearnings— 
So,  beloved,  think  of  me. 


EXPECTANCY 

I   WAIT  in  the  street  for  my  darling. 
Strange  that  I  have  not  marked  before 
The  wonderful  lights  which  clasp  and  crown 
The  brows  of  the  people  passing  down 

The  street  I  stand  in,  and  that  the  roar 
Of  the  crowded  marts  and  thronging  ways 

Swell  with  a  musical  resonance — 
Traffic  blossoming  into  praise 

With  a  divine  significance, 
As  I  wait  in  the  street  for  my  darling. 

144 


Expectancy 

I  wait  in  the  street  for  my  darling: 

How  changed  the  shops  and  houses  are; 
Only  this  morning  they  stood  there  stark 
In  the  sooty  vapors,  grim  and  dark, 

Their  windows  flinging  a  sudden  glare; 
While  now  it  seems  that  the  brick  walls  glow, 

And  now  it  seems  that  the  windows  shine 
With  an  almost  human  overflow 

Of  happy  gladness — which  is  the  sign, 
That  I  wait  in  the  street  for  my  darling. 


I  wait  in  the  street  for  my  darling: 

There's  a  smell  of  purity  in  the  air, 
There's  a  flush  of  splendor  along  the  skies, 
There's  a  sweeter  look  in  the  people's  eyes, 

There's  a  sense  of  beauty  everywhere; 
There's  a  hymn  in  my  heart,  and  on  my  feet 

Winged  sandals  of  blessed  light; 
And  I  know  by  a  touch  so  soft  and  sweet 

Of  a  tender  hand,  so  fair  and  white, 
I  have  met  my  love — my  darling. 


145 


FAREWELL 

REAT  tears  are  glistening  in  my  eyes, 
Washed  hither  by  the  large  excess 
Of  your  full-hearted  lovingness, 
And  thy  soul's  meek  serenities. 

My  spirit  overflows  its  banks 

With  yearning  that  I  can  not  stay; 
And  yet  my  lips  can  only  say, 

Dear  friend,  I  give  thee  many  thanks 

For  beauty  of  thy  quiet  speech, 
The  happy  calmness  of  thy  face, 
Thy  sweet  smile  lighting  up  the  place 

With  pleasant  warmth  for  all  and  each; 


The  voice  that  sounded  in  my  ears 
With  such  a  strange  serenity, 
As  though  my  mother  spoke  to  me, 

Across  the  silence  of  the  years  " 


146 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REST 

OH,  come  to  me  then  when  the  Spirit  of  Rest 
Breathes  soft  over  my  soul  like  the  breath  of  a 

dove, 

And  the  pride  and  passion  that  burns  in  my  breast, 
Lie  asleep  'neath  the  wings  of  the  Angel  of  Love. 

When  my  heart  wanders  back  to  the  mystical  past, 
Where  the  sunlight  of  pleasure  fell  full  on  the  hours, 

And  a  gust  of  glad  memories,  swelling  and  vast, 
Sweep  over  my  soul  as  a  whirlwind  of  flowers — 

O!  then  as  the  brightest,  where  all  things  are  bright, 
Comes  back  the  remembrance,  dear  sister,  of  thee; 

And  a  calmness  of  bliss,  like  the  calmness  of  light, 
Leads  my  soul  as  the  moon  leads  the  passionate  sea. 


MARRIAGE  HYMN 

IN  the  still  chambers  of  our  souls 
We  softly  walk  alway! 
We  let  no  tumult  enter  in, 
No  noise  by  night  or  day; 
But  listen  very  reverently 
To  what  the  voices  say. 

147 


A  Birthday  Lily 

A  touch  upon  our  clasped  hands, 

Light  as  a  falling  hair; 

The  sacred  sweetness  on  us  blows 

Of  newer  breaths  of  air, 

And  in  our  great  and  holy  calm 

We  know  that  they  are  there. 


A  BIRTHDAY  LILY 

IN  May,  the  rosebud  of  the  flowering  year, 
A  stainless  lily  came; 

Earth  shone  with  light,  and  every  starry  sphere 
Burned  with  diviner  flame. 

Art,  brooding  o'er  her  large  beatitudes, 

Felt  a  creative  thrill 
Run  tingling  through  her  splendid  varying  moods 

And  consentaneous  will. 

Song,  praised  amid  her  high  interpretings, 

Knew  a  seraphic  fire 

Ache  in  her  bosom,  and  her  startled  wings 
Shook  music  as  a  lyre. 

And  round  the  awful  soul  of  virginhood 

A  whiter  glory  played, 
And  babes  unto  their  mothers  crawled  and  cooed, 

More  softly  unafraid. 

148 


A  GOLDEN   TRESS 

AH  me!  how  slight  a  circumstance 
May  move  our  being's  deepest  springs. 
Ah  me  !  how  simple-seeming  chance 

Can  clutch  forgotten  passion  strings 
And  wake  the  old  remembered  tones, 

Till  memory  maddens  to  the  stir, 
And  all  the  past's  oblivious  bones 
Leap  living  from  the  sepulcher! 


I  found  to-day  a  golden  tress 

Of  one  who  has  been  dead  for  years, 
And  such  a  sudden  loneliness 

Fell  on  my  heart  and  on  the  spheres, 
I  well-nigh  feared  the  Christ  of  faith 

Had  gathered  all  his  sunshine  in 
And  left  us  nothing  but  the  wraith 

Of  our  sad  selfishness  and  sin. 


The  seat  beneath  the  hazel  bougns, 

The  woodlands  where  our  feet  did  stray, 

The  quick  warm  thrill  of  whispered  vows 
That  wore  the  precious  time  away; 

149 


A  Pictured  Face 

The  twilight  depths  of  those  dear  eyes, 
The  reverent  lips,  the  saintly  brow, 

The  Eden  hours  of  low  replies, — 
Beloved!  how  they  haunt  me  now! 


Almost  my  heart  had  bridged  across 

The  solemn  waters  which  did  roll 
Between  my  fearful  sense  of  loss 

And  every  other  human  soul; 
But  nothing  now  surmounts  the  waves 

That  wash  my  barren  island  shore, 
Moaning  like  dead  hopes  from  their  graves- 

Ah,  nevermore!  Ah,  nevermore! 


A  PICTURED  FACE 

NOT  quite  a  faultless  face; 
Yet  something  of  a  nameless  grace, 
A  radiance  from  a  higher  place, 


About  the  comfort-giving  eyes, 
And  brown  hair  worn  Madonna  wise 
Across  the  tender  forehead,  lies, 

150 


A  Pictured  Face 

And  round  the  lips  that  are  so  calm; 
While  loving  words  of  healing  balm 
Float  like  the  singing  of  a  psalm, 

Sung  where  the  singing  censers  go 

Before  the  altar,  to  and  fro, 

And  all  the  people's  heads  are  low, 

Awing  the  stormful  turbulence 

Of  my  rough  manhood,  with  the  sense 

Of  meekness,  and  the  affluence 

Of  that  high-heartedness  that  springs 
From  Martyr-wisdom,  and  the  things 
Learned  in  vast  silent  communings; 

With  that  pure  sanctity  that  broods 
Divine  above  our  changeful  moods, 
Turning  to  uses  and  to  goods 

All  loves,  and  hates,  and  smiles,  and  tears, 
And  downward  from  celestial  spheres 
Streams  all  along  our  earthly  years. 

With  folded  reverential  hands, 
I  look  up  to  her  where  she  stands, 
Interpreting  the  large  commands 


A  Pictured  Face 

With  which  her  days  are  held  and  led, 
And  which  with  glory  and  with  dread 
Have  crowned  the  soul  they  followed. 

I  look  up  to  her,  and  I  know 

That  years  may  come  and  years  may  go, 

And  life  may  ebb  and  life  may  flow; 

Yet  still  above  the  sweep  and  surge 
Of  pain  and  passion  that  doth  urge 
The  hot  time  upon  horrors'  verge, 

She  will  behold  the  Hand  displayed, 
She  will  stand  ever  undismayed; — 
Wherefore  my  heart  is  not  afraid. 


INDIRECTION 

FAIR   are    the   flowers    and    the  children,  but   their 
subtle  suggestion  is  fairer; 
Rare  is  the  roseburst  of  dawn,  but  the  secret  that  clasps 

it  is  rarer; 

Sweet  the  exultance  of   song,  but  the  strain   that  pre 
cedes  it  is  sweeter; 

And  never  was  poem  yet   writ,  but  the   meaning  out- 
mastered  the  meter. 

152 


Indirection 

Never  a  daisy  that  grows,  but  a  mystery  guideth  the 

growing; 
Never  a  river  that  flows,  but  a  majesty  scepters  the 

flowing; 
Never  a  Shakespeare  that  soared,  but  a  stronger  than 

he  did  enfold  him, 
Nor  ever  a  prophet  foretells,  but  a  mightier  seer  hath 

foretold  him. 


Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs  the  painter  is  hinted  and 

hidden; 
Into  the  statue  that  breathes  the  soul  of  the  sculptor  is 

bidden; 
Under  the  joy  that  is  felt  lie  the  infinite  issues  of 

feeling; 
Crowning  the  glory  revealed  is  the  glory  that  crowns 

the  revealing. 


Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is  sym- 

boled  is  greater; 
Vast    the    create    and    beheld,    but    vaster    the    inward 

creator; 
Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the  gift 

stands  the  giving; 
Back    of    the    hand  that    receives    thrill   the   sensitive 

nerves  of  receiving. 

153 


Advice   Gratis 

Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by  the 

doing; 
The  heart  of   the  wooer  is  warm,  but   warmer  the  heart 

of  the  wooing; 
And  up  from   the  pits  where  these  shiver,  and  up  from 

the  heights  where  those  shine, 
Twin   voices    and    shadows    swim   starward,    and    the 

essence  of  life  is  divine. 


ADVICE    GRATIS 

DO  you  mean  what  you  say  ?  Did  I  hear  aright  ? 
Were  you  in  earnest  or  in  sport? 
In  love  with  a  poet?     Are  you  quite 

At  odds  with  sanity,  to  assert 
That  you,  with  beauty,  and  wit,  and  grace, 

Instead  of  the  station  these  might  buy, 
Have  smilingly  set  your  feet  and  face 

Toward  paths  where  such  low  choosings  lie  ? 


A  poet — a  maker  of  verses — one 

Who  daily  coins,  for  his  daily  bread, 

The  blood  of  his  heart  in  rhymes  that  run 
His  brain  to  fever  with  fear  and  dread, 

154 


Advice  Gratis 

Lest  that  he  mar,  in  speaking  it, 

The  tone  of  the  Voice  that  comes  to  him 

Somewhere  out  from  the  infinite, 

Somewhere  out  from  the  vast  and  dim. 

You  need  not  answer;  I  know  your  thought. 

You  tell  me  that,  since  there  must  be  those 
Whose  lips,  like  the  throats  of  birds,  are  wrought 

Chiefly  for  singing,  it  follows  close 
That  God,  attuning  them  to  such  pitch, 

Accepts  their  songs  for  service — thus 
Making  our  sneers  at  a  soul  on  which 

He  has  laid  his  pressure  perilous. 

And  this  in  a  sense  is  true.      But  this 

Is  also  mystical:  we  should  take 
The  world  in  the  gross;  we  must  not  miss 

Of  ease  and  elegance  for  the  sake 
Of  dreams  and  dreamers;  and  I  opine 

It  would  strike  fresh  heat  in  your  poet's  verse 
If  you  flropped  some  aloes  into  his  wine — 

They  write  supremely  under  a  curse. 

Will  that  invisible  truth  of  things 

Which  shines  on  your  minstrel  compensate 

The  lack  of  the  visible  comfortings, 
The  tangible  gifts  and  goods  that  wait 

155 


Advice  Gratis 

On  stocks  and  dividends  ?     Which  are  best — 

These  vagabond  inspirations,  or 
Hard  cash  in  hand,  and  the  sense  in  the  breast 

That  you  have  gained  what  you  bargained  for? 

It  is  good,  no  doubt,  that  a  man  should  be 

Cast  in  such  weird  and  singular  mold 
As  dowers  his  vision  with  power  to  see 

God's  splendors  flaming,  where  you  behold 
Only  the  flaring  of  lighted  gas; 

But  with  a  husband  we  demand 
(Letting  the  gift  of  prophecy  pass) 

The  coin  that  is  current  in  the  land. 


Therefore  I  should  advise  you,  dear, 

To  give  your  lyrical  vagrant  such 
Sufficient  hint  of  a  prudent  fear, 

As — without  wounding  him  overmuch — 
May  serve  to  smite  his  insolent  hopes 

Down  to  levels  of  lesser  range; 
Sending  him  back  to  his  crowding  tropes 

Wiser  and  sadder  for  that  change. 


156 


AN  OLD   MAN'S   IDYL 

BY  the  waters  of  Life  we  sat  together, 
Hand  in  hand  in  the  golden  days 
Of  the  beautiful  early  summer  weather, 

When  skies  were  purple  and  breath  was  praise; 
When  the  heart  kept  tune  to  the  carol  of  birds, 

And  the  birds  kept  tune  to  the  songs  which  ran 
Through  shimmer  of  flowers  on  grassy  swards, 
And  trees  with  voices  y£olian. 

By  the  rivers  of  Life  we  walked  together, 

I  and  my  darling  unafraid; 
And  lighter  than  any  linnet's  feather 

The  burdens  of  being  on  us  weighed. 
And  love's  sweet  miracles  o'er  us  threw 

Mantles  of  joy  outlasting  time, 
And  up  from  the  rosy  morrows  grew 

A  sound  that  seemed  like  a  marriage  chime. 

In  the  gardens  of  Life  we  strayed  together; 

And  the  luscious  apples  were  ripe  and  red, 
And  the  languid  lilac  and  honeyed  heather 

Swooned  with  the  fragrance  which  they  shed. 
And  under  the  trees  the  angels  walked, 

And  up  in  the  air  a  sense  of  wings 
Awed  us  tenderly  while  we  talked 

Softly  in  sacred  communings. 

157 


An  Old  Man's  Idyl 

In  the  meadows  of  Life  we  strayed  together, 

Watching  the  waving  harvests  grow; 
And  under  the  benison  of  the  Father 

Our  hearts,  like  the  lambs,  skipped  to  and  fro. 
And  the  cowslips,  hearing  our  low  replies, 

Broidered  fairer  the  emerald  banks, 
And  glad  tears  shone  in  the  daisies'  eyes, 

And  the  timid  violets  glistened  thanks. 


Who  was  with  us,  and  what  was  round  us, 

Neither  myself  nor  my  darling  guessed; 
Only  we  knew  that  something  crowned  us 

Out  from  the  heavens  with  crowns  of  rest; 
Only  we  knew  that  something  bright 

Lingered  lovingly  where  we  stood. 
Clothed  with  the  incandescent  light 

Of  something  higher  than  humanhood. 


O  the  riches  Love  doth  inherit! 

Ah,  the  alchemy  which  doth  change 
Dross  of  body  and  dregs  of  spirit 

Into  sanctities  rare  and  strange! 
My  flesh  is  feeble  and  dry  and  old, 

My  darling's  beautiful  hair  is  gray; 
But  our  elixir  and  precious  gold 

Laugh  at  the  footsteps  of  decay. 

158 


The  Prize  Fight 

Harms  of  the  world  have  come  unto  us, 

Cups  of  sorrow  we  yet  shall  drain; 
But  we  have  a  secret  which  doth  show  us 

Wonderful  rainbows  in  the  rain. 
And  we  hear  the  tread  of  the  years  move  by, 

And  the  sun  is  setting  behind  the  hills; 
But  my  darling  does  not  fear  to  die, 

And  I  am  happy  in  what  God  wills. 

So  we  sit  by  our  household  fires  together, 

Dreaming  the  dreams  of  long  ago: 
Then  it  was  balmy  summer  weather, 

And  now  the  valleys  are  laid  in  snow. 
Icicles  hang  from  the  slippery  eaves; 

The  wind  blows  cold, — 'tis  growing  late; 
Well,  well!  we  have  garnered  all  our  sheaves, 

I  and  my  darling,  and  we  wait. 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHT 

F7  IGHTEEN  hundred  and  sixty  years 

J >     Of  Christward  leverage  under  the  spheres 

And  what  is  the  thing  that  now  appears  ? 

Troops  of  golden  prophecies  come 
Up  from  the  bountiful  martyrdom 
That  struck  the  jeering  world  so  dumb. 


The  Prize  Fight 

Wherefore,  far  on  the  outer  verge 

Of  tangled  cycles  of  sorrow  and  scourge, 

Where,  mid  the  passionate  ages'  surge, 

I  catch  the  shining  of  those  white  days 
For  which  the  universe  moans  and  prays — 
Soft  hours  wherein  is  no  dispraise. 

But  what  of  beautiful  and  of  sweet 

Doth  the  earth,  made  green  by  touch  of  His  feet, 

Yield  to  the  Holy  Paraclete  ? 

The  lips  of  a  glorious  brotherhood 

Fling  to  the  jasper  gates  of  God 

A  cry  that  sounds  as  a  voice  of  blood. 

Under  the  clear  compassionate  skies 
Two  men  glare  in  each  other's  eyes; 
And  yet  they  are  not  enemies- 
Amethyst  pure  are  their  affluent  veins, 
Royal  their  strength  of  loins  and  reins, 
Dark  their  ghastly  gashes  and  stains. 

Poet,  whose  super-sensual  ken 
Cleaves  to  the  souls  of  things  and  men, 
Where  was  your  scorn  of  scorning  then  ? 

1 60 


The  Prize  Fight 

Priest,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Cross, 
Naming  the  things  of  the  earth  for  dross, 
Why  did  you  stand  at  such  utter  loss? 


Mother-queen  of  the  isles  and  seas, 

Throned  in  purple  regalities, — 

You,  with  your  children  round  your  knees, 


Singing  of  love  and  of  innocence — 
Where  was  your  law's  just  vehemence, 
And  where  your  own  large  woman-sense? 


The  poet  withheld  his  awful  breath; 
The  craven  priest  was  still  as  death; 
He  did  not  whisper  of  Nazareth. 


The  queen  sate  silent:  the  strong  law  slept: 

And  a  roar  of  horrible  laughter  leapt 

From  the  throat  of  hell  to  the  heavens  that  wept. 


Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty  years 

Of  Christward  leverage  under  the  spheres; 

And  this  is  the  thing  that  now  appears. 


161 


GOING   HOME 

1    THINK  that  in  the  time  of  year 
When  all  the  earth  is  white  with  snow, 
And  men  run  shivering  to  and  fi  o 
About  the  frozen  hemisphere; 

When  all  the  lakes  are  fast  asleep, 
And  all  the  forest  trees  are  bare, 
And  cold  amid  the  icy  air 

The  pale  skies  can  no  longer  weep, 

I  will  gird  up  my  loins  to  make 
A  journey  o'er  the  sluggish  seas, 
That,  kneeling  at  my  mother's  knees, 

I  may  a  little  while  forsake 

This  deadly  time  of  uncontrol, 
The  weary  toiling  of  the  brain, 
The  voice  that  like  a  moan  of  pain 

And  darkness  lingers  in  my  soul. 

There  are  fine  yearnings  in  the  breath, 
Deep  pulses  in  the  silent  heart, 
Which,  cast  aside  or  rent  apart, 

Like  poor  gashed  veins  will  bleed  to  death. 

162 


A  Man's  Name 

And  I,  who  am  sore  parched  with  drought, 
Have  strangely  hungered  overmuch 
For  Father's  slightest  finger-touch, 

And  kisses  from  my  mother's  mouth. 

I  see  two  sister-faces  shine 

Around  my  footsteps  more  and  more; 

And  on  the  river  and  the  shore 
I  hold  a  brother's  hand  in  mine. 

So,  when  the  early  sunsets  come, 

And,  blazing  on  the  household  hearth. 
The  ruddy  yule-logs  sparkle  forth, 

I  will  go  forward  to  my  home. 


A   MAN'S   NAME 

In  memoriam,  David  Simmons,  Railroad  Engineer.    Died  Febru 
ary  6th,  1871,  near  New  Hamburgh,  N.  Y. 

THROUGH  the  packed  horror  of  the  night 
It  rose  up  like  a  star, 
And  sailed  into  the  infinite, 
Where  the  immortals  are. 

"  Down  brakes!  "    One  splendid  hard-held  breath, 

An  lo!  an  unknown  name 
Strode  into  sovereignty  from  death, 
Trailing  a  path  of  flame. 

163 


A  Man's  Name 

"  Jump!" — "  I  remain." — No  needless  word, 

No  vagueness  in  his  breast; 
Along  his  blood  the  swift  test  stirred — 
He  answered  to  the  test, 

Gripped  his  black  peril  like  a  vice, 

And,  as  he  grappled,  saw 
That  life  is  one  with  sacrifice. 

And  duty  one  with  law. 

Home: — but  his  feet  grew  granite  fast; 

Wife: — yet  he  did  not  reel; 
Babes: — ah,  they  tugged!  but  to  the  last 

He  stood  there  true  as  steel. 

Above  his  own  heart's  lovingness, 

Above  another's  crime, 
Above  the  immitigable  stress, 

Above  himself,  and  time, 

Smote  loving  comfort  on  the  cheek, 

Gave  quibbling  Fear  the  lie, 
Taught  ambling  fluence  how  to  speak, 

And  brave  men  how  to  die. 

Who  said  the  time  of  kings  was  gone  ? 

Who  said  our  Alps  were  low, 
And  not  by  God's  airs  blown  upon  ? 

Behold  it  is  not  so. 

164 


The  Children 

Out  from  the  palace  and  the  hut 
Dwarf-fronted,  lame  of  will, 

Limp  our  marred  Joves  and  giants — but 
Sceptered  for  mastery  still, 

And  clothed  with  puissance  to  quell 

Whatever  mobs  of  shame 
Are  leagued  within  us,  with  such  spell 

As  David  Simmons'  name. 


THE   CHILDREN 

DO  you  love  me,  little  children  ? 
O  sweet  blossoms  that  are  curled 
(Life's  tender  morning  glories) 

'Round  the  casement  of  the  world  ! 
Do  your  hearts  climb  up  toward  me, 

As  my  own  heart  bends  to  you, 
In  the  beauty  of  your  dawning 
And  the  brightness  of  your  dew  ? 

When  the  fragrance  of  your  faces 
And  the  rhythm  of  your  feet, 

And  the  incense  of  your  voices 
Transform  the  sullen  street, 

165 


The  Children 

Do  you  see  my  soul  move  softly 
Forever  where  you  move, 

With  an  eye  of  benediction 
And  a  guarding  hand  of  love  ? 

O  my  darlings!     I  am  with  you 

In  your  trouble,  in  your  play, 
In  your  sobbing  and  your  singing, 

In  your  dark  and  in  your  day, 
In  the  chambers  where  you  nestle, 

In  the  hovels  where  you  lie, 
In  the  sunlight  where  you  blossom, 

And  the  blackness  where  you  die. 

Not  a  blessing  broods  above  you, 

But  it  lifts  me  from  the  ground; 
Not  a  thistle-barb  doth  sting  you, 

But  I  suffer  with  the  wound; 
And  a  chord  within  me  trembles 

To  your  lightest  touch  or  tone, 
And  I  famish  when  you  hunger, 

And  I  shiver  when  you  moan. 

Can  you  tell  me,  little  children, 

Why  it  is  I  love  you  so  ? 
Why  I'm  weary  with  the  burthens 

Of  my  sad  and  dreary  woe  ? 

166 


Esoteric 

Do  the  myrtle  and  the  aloes 
Spring  blithely  from  one  tree  ? 

Yet  I  love  you,  O  my  darlings! 
Have  you  any  flowers  for  me  ? 

I  have  trodden  all  the  spaces 

Of  my  solemn  years  alone, 
And  have  never  felt  the  cooing 

Of  a  babe's  breath  near  my  own. 
But  with  more  than  father  passion, 

And  with  more  than  mother  pain, 
I  have  loved  you,  little  children: 

Do  you  love  me  back  again  ? 


ESOTERIC 

ART  is  nne,  but  love  is  finer; 
Can  you  paint  a  soul  ? 
What  if  beauty  is  diviner, 
Fragrant,  or  the  whole  ? 

Song  is  sweet,  but  love  is  sweeter; 

Was  there  ever  hymn 
That  for  compass  and  for  meter, 

Bowed  the  Seraphim  ? 

167 


A  Woman's  Breath 

Thought  is  great,  but  love  is  greater; 

Who  can  search  out  truth  ? 
Love  alone  is  revelator, 

Love  is  love,  in  sooth. 


A   WOMAN'S    BREATH 

"I  certainly  should  not  advise  any  poor  man  to  marry  me. 
[From  a  letter.] 

WHAT  fatal  mastery  of  indirection 
Lurks  in  a  woman's  breath; 
A  courteous  phrase,  a  gracious  genuflexion, 
And  hope  is  stabbed  to  death. 


And  love  moans  reeling  down  the  vast  abysses 

Of  horrible  despair, 
Maddened  by  memory  of  immortal  kisses, 

And  sounds  of  tones  that  were. 


The  torture  of  the  ghostly  touch  of  fingers 

That  hold  you  passion-tight, 
And  torment  of  a  lilac  dawn  that  lingers 

About  your  lurid  night; 

168 


A  Voice  from  the  Condemned 

While,  over  all  these  desolations, 

She  walks  in  serene  guise, 
With  not  a  shiver  in  her  heart's  pulsations, 

Nor  in  her  level  eyes. 


A  VOICE   FROM  THE   CONDEMNED 

I  THINK,  by  the  streak  of  gray 
Just  over  my  window-bars, 
And  the  waning  of  the  stars, 
It  must  be  the  break  of  day. 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  words 
Close  by  on  the  courtyard  stones; 
I  guess  'tis  the  workmen's  tones, 

As  they  fix  the  scaffold  boards. 

In  three  hours  I  shall  be  dead — 
Last  week  I  hilted  my  knife 
To  the  heart  of  a  rich  man's  life, 

And  spent  his  money  for  bread. 

A  dozen  summers  ago 

(I  was  then  a  child,  cast  forth 
Without  a  friend  on  the  earth) 

He  struck  me  a  bitter  blow, 

169 


A  Voice  from  the  Condemned 

A  blow  and  a  coward's  curse, 

When  I  asked  for  a  crust  of  food; 
And  so  I  remembered  his  mood, 

And  settled  the  wrong  with  worse. 


My  vengeance  was  that  which  waits; 
So  I  let  him  fatten  and  fume 
Till  I  thought  him  ripe  for  doom, 

When  I  kicked  him  out  to  the  fates. 


A  murderer,  ay! — who  cares  ? 
I  let  out  the  blood  of  his  heart — 
So,  having  acted  my  part, 

I  leave  you  not  unawares. 


He  sowed  the  seed  in  my  soul, 
And  he  reaped  the  ripened  grain; 
No  doubt,  were  he  here  again, 

He  would  speedily  give  the  dole. 


I  shall  meet  him  to-day  at  seven — 
And  yet,  is  it  really  well 
To  strike  me  at  once  to  hell, 

When  both  might  have  gone  to  heaven? 


170 


NOBIUTY 

CAN'T  man  be  noble  unless  he  be  great, 
With  a  patrimonial  hall; 
And  heaps  of  gold  and  vast  estate, 
And  vassals  at  his  call  ? 

Can't  man  be  noble  unless  there  be 

A  title  to  his  name, 
Unless  he  live  in  luxury 

Or  loll  in  the  seats  of  fame  ? 

Can't  man  be  noble  unless  his  voice 

Be  heard  in  the  senate  band; 
Or  his  eye  flash  bright  and  his  words  breathe  light, 

Through  all  his  native  land  ? 

Ah  yes!  at  the  forge  and  the  weaver's  loom, 

As  well  as  in  hall  of  state, 
At  the  desk  and  in  the  cottage  room, 

There  are  noble  ones  and  great. 

They  are  springing  up  on  every  side, 

In  hamlet  and  in  town; 
Where  the  stream  pours  and  ocean  roars, 

They  are  wreathing  a  laurel  crown. 


Reconciliation 

They  are  weaving  the  mighty  robe  of  truth. 
And  bold  are  the  throws  they  make, 

As  they  are  teaching  age  and  guilt 
Oppressive  bonds  to  break. 

Yes,  these  are  the  noble  and  the  great, 
Who  will  shine  at  a  distant  day, 

Where  titled  ones  of  hall  and  state, 
Shall  have  been  but  far  away. 


RECONCILIATION 

NO  man  can  climb  so  close  to  God 
But  needeth  to  beseech  Him, 
Nor  lapse  so  far  to  devilhood 

That  mercy  can  not  reach  him. 
We  stand,  with  all,  on  level  ground. 

In  equal  human  fashion, 
Encompassed  by  the  blue  profound 
Of  infinite  compassion! 

Shake  hands  then  on  the  rusted  swords, 

O  blood-bedraggled  nation! 
Smite  down  the  past  with  sweet  accord 

Of  reconciliation; 

172 


Fragments 

Walk  brotherly  and  lovingly 
The  upward  paths  of  duty, 

And  let  the  kings  and  tyrants  see 
A  people's  kingly  beauty! 


FRAGMENTS 

LASPED  by  the  glory  of  her  face 

Death  looked  so  beautiful  and  meek, 
I  knew  at  once  he  came  to  seek, 
For  God's  sweet  offices  of  grace, 
The  soul  that  lately  passed  to  Him 

Thro'  this  white  gate  of  blessed  flowers, 
Which  now  I  wet  with  tearful  showers 
While  waiting  for  the  Seraphim. 


I  love  the  starlight  so  with  a  love 

Strange  as  the  heart  of  woman!     In  my  soul 

There  are  no  feelings  lying  so  deep, 

Save  the  yearnings  toward  my  mother:  I  do  mind 

How,  when  the  nights  were  gloomy,  I  have  watched 

With  earnest  patience  waiting  for  the  light 

Shining  behind  the  dark  of  driving  clouds; 

173 


Fragments 

And  I  remember  how  the  unconscious  tears 
Would  tremble  on  my  eyelids,  when  a  star 
Looked  on  me  thro'  the  tempest.     T'was  a  joy 
Just  like  my  joy  in  childhood,  when  I  felt 
The  sweet  eyes  of  my  mother  touch  my  soul, 
And  her  lips  kiss  my  forehead;  O,  the  stars! 


I  know  that  when  the  shadows  deepen,  and  the  world 

Goes  like  an  infant  to  its  proper  rest, 

The  human  heart  grows  holier,  and  the  soul 

Speaks  with  a  purer  language,  and  a  voice 

Which  is  not  of  the  noonday,  makes  us  thrill 

With  its  strange  subtleties; 

Some  fibers  in  all  hearts  hold  fast  to  heaven; — 

I  could  not  live  without  the  stars. 


Here  she  stood 

With  her  white  finger  pointing  to  the  skies, 
Thick  sown  with  majesties  as  earth  is  sown 
With  troubled  human  love  !     "  Walter,"  she  said, 
"  These  are  my  witnesses  ";  then  burst  in  tears 
Like  a  full  cloud,  pouring  out  its  heart  in  rain. 


174 


Sentinel  Thoughts 

She  kissed  me,  my  beautiful  darling, 

I  drank  the  delight  of  her  lips; 
The  universe  melted  to  ether, 

Mortality  stood  in  eclipse. 
A  spirit  of  light  stood  before  me, 

I  heard  a  far  rustle  of  wings; 
The  kings  of  the  earth  were  as  beggars, 

And  the  beggars  of  earth  were  as  kings. 


SENTINEL  THOUGHTS 

(Unfinished) 

I    PACE  my  beat  in  silentness 
Of  dream,  and  nurse  and  ponder, 
Re-live  the  days  of  battle  stress, 
Re-tread  the  fields  of  thunder; 
Re-walk  the  wastes  where  carnage  gave 

His  mad  hounds  blood  for  water, 
Review  the  cities  of  the  grave, 
The  bivouacs  of  slaughter. 

I  see  the  desolated  homes, 

The  ruined  altar  places, 
The  symbols  of  dread  martyrdoms 

Written  in  women's  faces. 

175 


Magdalena 

I  hear  the  sonless  father's  sighs, 
The  bereaved  mother  praying, 

The  little  children's  sobbing  cries, 
Orphaned  amid  their  playing. 

I  mark  the  myriad  souls  that  swoon 
Beneath  war's  cruel  splinters; 

The  widowed  lives  that  dwell  alone, 
In  everlasting  winters. 


MAGDALENA 

WHEN  a  poor  forsaken  sister, 
Whom  we  name  a  fearful  name, 
From  the  leprous  life  that  kissed  her, 

Shudders  back,  all  bound  with  shame; 
When  her  weary  soul  is  yearning 

For  the  light  of  God's  own  skies, 
And,  far  off,  a  dim  discerning 
Of  a  purer  morrow  lies; 

Do  not  thou  who,  less  believing, 

Loving  less,  hast  conquered  more, — 

Do  not  thrust  her  backward  grieving 
To  the  life  she  lived  before; 

176 


Magdalena 

Do  not  pass  her  by  and  whisper 
Bitter  words  of  scorn  and  pain; 

Make  her  crisp,  hot  heart  grow  crisper, 
And  the  red  hell  burn  again. 

Who  art  thou  that  passest  sentence 

On  a  bleeding  human  soul  ? 
Could'st  thou  drain  f  ull-dregged  repentance 

If  no  love  were  in  the  bowl  ? 
Is  not  she,  poor,  stricken  weeper, 

Loved  of  Heaven,  alike  with  thee  ? 
Fool!  thy  pride  hath  thrust  thee  deeper 

Than  thy  sister — Pharisee! 

Nighest  to  the  great,  calm  splendor 

Of  our  first  poor  innocence, 
Is  the  halo,  sadly  tender, 

Of  a  warm  heart's  penitence. 
Wherefore,  brothers,  since  transgression 

Shrouds  each  spirit  like  a  pall, 
Is  not  meek  and  full  confession 

Best  and  noblest  for  us  all  ? 

Go!  and  when,  proud  soul,  thou  learnest 

Thou,  and  I,  and  all  are  one, 
Then  shall  beauty,  deep  and  earnest, 

Greet  thee  like  a  newer  love. 

177 


Mother  Remembrance 

And  the  love  that  lights  thy  features, 
In  thy  wider  eyes  should  be 

Unto  all  God's  living  creatures 
Even  as  it  is  to  thee. 


MOTHER    REMEMBRANCE 

AS  soon  as  the  clock  in  the  hall  strikes  eight, 
'Twill  be  thirteen  lonely  years 
Since  my  heart's  lost  darling,  fair-haired  Kate, 

Looked  into  these  eyes  of  tears. 
I  did  not  dream  when  she  went  away 

To  pass  a  month  in  the  town, 
She  would  make  such  a  long  and  bitter  stay, 
And  so  sink  my  spirit  down. 


I  only  thought  of  the  city  sights, 

Of  the  things  that  she  would  learn, 
Of  the  morrow's  ever-new  delights, 

And  her  womanly  return. 
I  only  thought  how  my  life  would  gush 

When  I  kissed  her  lips  again; 
I  did  not  dream  of  the  weary  crush 

Of  these  thirteen  years  of  pain. 

178 


Mother  Remembrance 

God  pity  thee,  my  beautiful  child, 

For  the  love  which  thou  has  spilt; 
And  the  pure  white  hopes  thou  hast  defiled 

With  thy  fearful  spots  of  guilt! 
God  pity  thee,  in  thy  gilded  halls 

Of  sorrow  and  shame  and  sin, 
Where  the  shadows  of  death  forever  falls 

On  the  lips  of  all  within. 


There  is  no  one  now  when  your  temples  leap, 

And  the  fire  shoots  through  your  brain, 
To  fold  you  close  in  the  sweet  warm  sleep 

You  will  never  know  again! 
There  is  no  one  now  when  the  nights  are  long, 

And  the  tempests  walk  the  skies, 
To  sing  you  the  happy  fireside  song 

We  have  sung  with  thankful  eyes. 


Do  you  never  think  of  our  dreary  home  ? 

Of  your  father's  thin,  gray  hair? 
Of  the  voice  we  miss  in  the  little  room, 

And  my  broken-hearted  prayer? 
Do  you  never  wring  your  delicate  hands, 

Nor  clench  your  shuddering  teeth, 
When  your  soul's  shrill  whispers  stir  the  brands 

Of  the  burning  hell  beneath  ? 

179 


Nameless 

Have  you  never  wished  you  could  come  at  night, 

When  all  in  the  house  was  still, 
And  watch  us  sit  by  the  candle  light, 

From  the  little  window-sill  ? 
To  lift  the  latch  of  the  half-closed  door  ? 

And,  with  a  passionate  cry, 
Kneel  down  at  our  tottering  feet  once  more, 

And  fall  on  our  necks,  and  die  ? 


Come  back,  my  beautiful  desolate  one, 

Come  back  to  thy  native  place, 
Where  the  healing  air  may  breathe  upon 

The  hurt  of  thy  haggard  face! 
There's  a  vacant  bed  and  an  empty  chair, 

In  the  silent  room  above; 
Come  back,  dear  child,  to  thy  father's  care 

And  my  all-forgiving  love. 


NAMELESS 

I  UDGE,  I  plead  guilty;  he  speaks  the  truth: 

I  am  what  he  says,  and  what  you  see. 
So  old  in  a  damned,  unhallowed  youth, 
That  your  wrinkled  years  seem  young  to  me. 

1 80 


Nameless 

Don't  preach — don't  lecture.     I  know  it  all: 
The  easy  canting,  the  fluent  words, 

The  solemn  drivel  of  text  from  Paul, 

And  a  mangled  phrase  or  two  of  the  Lord's. 

Moreover  you  err  if  you  suppose 

That  even  a  harlot,  soaked  in  sin, 
Slides  down  the  darkness  without  some  throes 

Of  the  marred  meek  purities  within. 
O  sir!  you  wrong  even  our  disgrace, 

To  think  that  we  never  wail  and  cry 
Out  from  the  foulness  with  lifted  face 

To  an  awful  Something  up  in  the  sky. 

Do  you  think  I  never  dream  of  home, 

Of  a  weary  man  with  whitening  hair? 
Of  a  missing  voice  in  a  vacant  room, 

And  the  sobs  a-choke  in  a  woman's  prayer? 
That  nothing  has  ever  prompted  flight, 

Swift  as  my  hungry  feet  could  fly, 
Fatherward,  motherward — that  I  might 

Fall  on  their  necks,  break  heart,  and  die? 

My  God,  my  God!  when  the  masked  brows  must 
Be  clothed  with  a  false  forged  radiance,  while 

The  bloom  of  the  soul  is  burnt  to  dust, 
And  under  a  fabricated  smile 

181 


Nameless 

Dead  ghosts  of  murdered  innocence  glare 

Devils  from  their  accusing  eyes, 
And  a  babe's  chirrup  thrown  on  the  air 

Scares  like  thunder  out  of  the  skies; 

When  the  sweet  sanctities  set  to  guard 

The  inner  whiteness  from  outer  stain, 
Tricked  of  their  holy  watch  and  ward, 

Moan  and  madden  in  heart  and  brain; 
And  a  howling  fury  hunts  and  hounds 

Wherever  a  clean  thought  hides  away; 
And  a  dreadful  voice  of  dooming  sounds 

Through  the  haunted  chambers  night  and  day 

And  a  Something  mocks  you  when  you  laugh, 

And  a  Something  jeers  you  when  you  weep; 
And  hell-fire  lurks  in  the  wine  you  quaff, 

And  a  fiend  grins  at  you  in  your  sleep; 
And  a  coiling  horror  sucks  you  down 

Through  a  black  and  bottomless  abyss — 
Judge,  do  you  think  your  legal  frown 

Can  augur  punishment  worse  than  this? 

Bah,  what  a  horrible  fool  am  I 

To  talk  like  this  to  a  man  like  you! 

Someday  the  toughest  of  us  must  die, 

And  we  shall  be  sifted,  through  and  through, 

182 


A  Voice  from  a  City  Cellar 

Sifted  and  sorted.     Judge,  have  you  thought 

That  possibly  to  the  sorted,  then, 
Something  that  now  is  may  be  naught, 

When  the  cowards'  shrieks  steam  up  from  men  ? 


A  VOICE  FROM  A  CITY  CELLAR 

IT  is  true  I  am  very  poor, 
And  yet  I  love  my  child 
With  a  love  as  deep  and  wild, 
As  full  of  the  brimming  o'er 

Of  its  passionate  bursting  waves, 
As  if  silver  handles  were  on  my  door 
And  my  house  were  filled  with  slaves. 

Do  you  think  that  because  I  live 

In  a  cellar  underground, 

From  poverty's  yelping  hound 
A  sort  of  fugitive, 

That  the  angels  never  come 
And  look  with  love  on  the  love  I  give? 

Do  you  think  my  heart  is  dumb  ? 

I  know  I  can  hardly  clothe 
My  dear  babe's  body  and  feet, 
While  scarcely  ever  we  eat 

A  meal  which  you  would  not  loathe; 

183 


A  Voice  from  a  City  Cellar 

But  I  tell  you,  milk-faced  miss, 
That  e'er  God  severs  our  double  growth, 
He  must  send  more  pain  than  this. 

I  wash  his  hands  and  his  face 
And  patch  up  his  trowser  rents, 
Then  send  him  to  gather  pence 

From  men  in  the  market  place. 
He  comes  home  covered  with  dirt, 

But  think  you  I  think  him  less  in  grace 
Because  he  hasn't  a  shirt  ? 

Our  bed  in  the  corner  there 

(That's  it,  the  bundle  of  straw 

Which  the  rats  have  begun  to  gnaw — 
'Tis  rather  a  poor  affair) 

Is  a  resting  place  for  two 
Who  own  just  as  much  of  the  boundless  air 

As  our  Father  giveth  to  you. 

What,  going?  well,  go;  and  learn 

That  the  living  infinite  spark 

Shot  out  in  the  mighty  dark 
May  light  up  a  cellar  and  burn 

In  a  beggar's  heart  and  eyes, 
With  as  fixed  a  flame  as  thou  canst  discern 

In  thy  shining,  affluent  skies. 

184 


SONG  OF  THE   OUTCAST 

T J  OW  coldly  the  shuddering  night  wind  moans 

1    1      In  gusts  thro'  the  glimmering  street, 
And  how  drearily  echo  the  dismal  stones 

To  the  tread  of  my  listless  feet. 
And  the  hollow  voice  of  the  sobbing  rain 

And  the  talk  of  the  sounding  sea 
Seem  only  as  terrible  tongues  of  pain 
That  hiss  like  the  fiends  at  me. 

"  I  can  bear  the  horrible  fiery  rain 

Men  pelt  from  their  scornful  eyes, 
And  stand  untouched  by  the  mournful  mien 

That  comes  from  the  good  and  wise; 
But,  oh!  when  the  passing  rain  and  wind 

And  the  very  ocean's  swell 
Do  burn  and  blast  in  my  inmost  mind, 

I  could  wish  myself  in  hell. 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  mother  died 

Ere  the  desolation  came, 

When,  drunken  with  flaming  dreams  of  pride, 
I  clasped  to  my  soul  the  shame. 

185 


Song  of  the  Outcast 

Thank  God!     Thank  God!  she  is  dead  and  gone, 
For  't  would  splinter  her  heart  in  twain 

To  know  that  the  leper  they  spit  upon 
Drew  life  from  her  blood  and  brain. 

"  I  wonder  if  father  loves  me  yet, 

And  whether  the  blessed  child, 
The  life  that  rose  on  the  life  that  set, 

Still  lives,  and  is  undefiled. 
O,  mother!     I  think  I  see  her  now 

With  the  new  babe  on  her  breast, 
The  glory  clasping  her  pure  white  brow 

And  the  angel  bringing  rest. 

"  How,  many  a  time,  when  my  drenched  soul  swims 

In  bitter  and  blinding  tears, 
And  there  comes  a  sound  of  tender  hymns 

Across  these  blasphemous  years, 
Do  I  rush  forth  into  the  great  dark  night 

And  cover  my  burning  face, 
To  shut  from  my  vision  the  ghastly  blight 

I  have  breathed  in  my  native  place. 

"  O  dark,  dark  past,  must  it  always  glare 

With  dreadful  and  damning  eye  ? 
Do  none  of  the  beautiful  angels  care 
For  such  fallen  ones  as  I  ? 

186 


Song  of  the  Seamstress 

I  could  clasp  whole  worlds  of  deadliest  pain, 

Kiss  every  stroke  of  the  rod 
That  should  scourge  my  poor  soul  back  again 

To  its  early  love  for  God. 

"  But  it  may  not  be;  for  on  every  side 

I  am  spurned  and  unforgiven, 
And  trampled  beneath  the  heels  of  pride 

By  the  very  sons  of  heaven. 
So  I  needs  must  cling  to  my  fearful  life 

With  the  curse  upon  my  head, 
In  the  Christless  doom  of  this  dreadful  strife 

For  a  sheltering  roof  and  bread." 


SONG   OF  THE  SEAMSTRESS 

IT  is  twelve  o'clock  by  the  city's  chime, 
And  my  task  is  not  yet  done; 
Through  two  more  weary  hours  of  time 

Must  my  heavy  eyes  ache  on. 
I  may  not  suffer  my  tears  to  come, 

And  I  dare  not  stop  to  feel; 
For  each  idle  moment  steals  a  crumb 
From  my  sad  to-morrow's  meal. 

187 


Song  of  the  Seamstress 

It  is  very  cold  in  this  cheerless  room, 

And  my  limbs  are  strangely  chill; 
My  pulses  beat  with  a  sense  of  doom, 

And  my  very  heart  seems  still; 
But  I  shall  not  care  for  this  so  much, 

If  my  fingers  hold  their  power, 
And  the  hand  of  sleep  forbears  to  touch 

My  eyes  for  another  hour. 


I  wish  I  could  earn  a  little  more, 

And  live  in  another  street, 
Where  I  need  not  tremble  to  pass  the  door, 

And  shudder  at  all  I  meet. 
'Tis  a  fearful  thing  that  a  friendless  girl 

Forever  alone  should  dwell 
In  the  midst  of  scenes  enough  to  hurl 

A  universe  to  hell. 


God  knows  that  I  do  not  wish  to  sink 

In  the  pit  that  yawns  around; 
But  I  cannot  stand  on  its  very  brink, 

As  I  could  on  purer  ground; 
I  do  not  think  that  my  strength  is  gone, 

Nor  fear  for  my  shortening  breath; 
But  the  terrible  winter  is  coming  on, 

And  I  must  not  starve  to  death. 

188 


Hashish 

I  wish  I  had  died  with  sister  Rose, 

Ere  hunger  and  I  were  mates; 
Ere  I  felt  the  grip  of  the  thought  that  grows 

The  hotter  the  more  it  waits. 
I  am  sure  that  He  whom  they  curse  to  me, 

The  Father  of  all  our  race, 
Did  not  mean  the  world  He  made  to  be 

Such  a  dark  and  dreary  place. 

I  would  not  mind  if  they'd  only  give 

A  little  less  meager  pay, 
And  spare  me  a  moment's  time  to  grieve, 

With  a  little  while  to  pray. 
But  until  these  far-off  blessings  come, 

I  may  neither  weep  nor  kneel; 
For,  alas!  'twould  cost  me  a  precious  crumb 

Of  my  sad  to-morrow's  meal. 


HASHISH 

IF  ever  you  should  desire  to  gain 
A  glimpse  of  the  primal  regions  where 
The  vital  tissues  o'  the  heart  lie  bare, 
The  intricate  coils  of  life  are  plain; 

If  you  have  strength  enough  to  dare 
The  apocalypse  which  turns  the  brain 

189 


Hashish 

With  too  much  peering  of  mortal  eyes 

Into  the  immortalities, 

And — stabbed  with  splendors  that  hurt  like  pain- 
Wake  from  the  gorgeous  dream  at  last 

Dogged  by  phantoms  which  cleave  and  cling 

Closer  than  any  living  thing, 
Haunting  your  future  with  their  past, 

Liming  you  in  a  charmed  ring. 

Cutting  you  with  a  wizard  wing 

Out  from  the  darkness,  till  you  die — 

Eat  of  the  hashish,  as  did  I. 

It  was  not  the  drug  of  the  Orient, 

With  which  the  poet  simulates 
A  warmth  in  his  veins  when  the  fires  are  spent, 

A  flight  in  the  blue  when  the  bitter  weights 
Of  the  world  have  broken  his  wings;  it  was 
More  beautiful,  awful,  terrible! 
Clothed  on  with  fantasies  which  surpass 

Whatever  is  known  of  heaven  or  hell, 

When,  under  the  touch  of  the  other  spell, 

Back  the  mystical  curtains  roll, 

And  up,  unscreened,  to  the  seeing  soul, 

Past  and  present  and  future  rise, 

Bearing  the  secrets  in  their  eyes. 

She  could  not  help  that  she  distilled 
A  blessed  aroma  all  around; 

190 


Hashish 

She  could  not  help  it  that  she  filled 
My  arid  silence  with  cooing  sound; 

She  could  not  help  that  her  sweet  face 
Was  as  a  reverential  hymn; 

She  could  not  help  that  round  her  place 
Lingered  the  Lord  God's  cherubim. 


Was  it  so  strange  that,  brooding  thus, 

Over  her  saintly  humanhood, 
Deliriums  multitudinous 

Wrought  in  my  pulses  and  my  blood  ? 
That  I  dreamed  dear  dreams  of  a  wedded  wife? 

That  some  one  walked  in  my  sleep  by  my  side  ? 
That  I  stood  in  a  tremulous  hush  of  life, 

Content  to  stand  so  until  I  died  ? 
Oh,  the  clear  beneficent  days! 

Oh,  the  calm  and  reverent  nights! 
Oh,  the  mornings  of  perfect  praise! 

Oh,  the  evenings  of  pure  delights! 
Oh,  the  whispers  in  which  we  talked! 

Oh,  arch  replies  of  merry  lips! 
Oh,  the  trances  wherein  we  walked! 

And  the  beautiful  fellowships! 
Spirit  with  spirit  so  ingrooved, 

Sympathies  so  divinely  blent, 
My  blessing  watched  the  flowers  she  loved, 

And  made  my  poverty  opulent, 

191 


"Mollie" 

The  well-pleased  angels  smiling  on 
That  most  ineffable  unison! 

No  trance  is  life-long;  all  dreams  flee — 

I  am  awake  now;  something  cut 
The  path  of  the  currents  lifting  me, 

And  close  the  inscrutable  blankness  shut 
Down  on  my  mount  Delectable; 

Down  on  my  fields  Elysian; 
Down  on  my  Palace  Beautiful! 

Over  the  universe  something  ran 
Which  trod  the  gold  and  the  amethyst 

Out  from  the  mornings  and  the  eves; 

Something  withered  the  grass  and  leaves; 
Out  from  the  vastness  something  hissed; 

And  something  within  me  moans  and  grieves, 
Like  a  lost  soul's  wail  for  something  missed. 


"MOUJE" 

IS  the  grave  deep,  dear?  Deeper  still  is  love. 
They  cannot  hide  thee  from  thy  father's  heart, 
Thou  liest  below,  and  I  stand  here  above; 
Yet  are  we  not  apart. 

192 


"Mollie" 

The  lyric  patter  of  thy  blessed  feet 

That  made  a  poem  of  the  nursery  floor — 
The  sweet  eyes  dancing  toward  me  down  the  street- 
Are  with  me  evermore. 

My  breath  is  balmy  with  thy  clinging  kiss, 
My  hand  is  soft  wherein  thy  soft  palm  lay; 
And  yet  there  is  something  which  I  miss 
And  mourn  for  night  and  day. 

My  eyes  ache  for  thee.     God's  heaven  is  so  high 
We  can  not  see  its  singers:  when  thou  dost 
With  thy  lark's  voice  make  palpitant  all  the  sky, 
I  moan  and  pain  the  most. 

Because  the  hunger  of  my  vision  runs 
Most  swift  in  its  swift  seeking  after  thee, 
I  yearn  through  all  the  systems  and  the  suns, 
But  none  doth  answer  me. 

And  then  I  grow  a-weary,  and  do  tire; 
And  not  my  darlings  in  their  earthly  place 
Can  wean  the  passion  with  which  I  desire 
Thy  lips  upon  my  face. 

If  I  could  fondle  with  thee  for  an  hour! — 
But  now  thou  art  too  sacred.     I  must  stand 
Silent  and  reverent:  thou  hast  grown  to  power, 
And  fitness,  and  command; 

193 


"He  Giveth  His  Beloved  Rest" 

And  I  walk  here.     Thou  art  above  me  now. 
I  may  not  longer  teach  thee  anything. 
Thou  dost  not  need  my  blessing  on  thy  brow, 
Nor  any  comforting. 

How  changed — how  changed!     A  little  while  ago, 
And  all  the  beautiful  vast  care  was  mine. 
Out  from  my  bosom  gushed  the  overflow 
Of  sacrificial  wine. 


And  now  thou  art  God's  angel  unto  me. 
Thus  His  ways  mix,  and  He  is  ever  good. 
Reach  me  thy  hand,  wife;  we  are  held  all  three 
In  His  infinitude. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  REST 

O'ER  mile-long  tracks  of  ice  and  snow 
And  endless  sodden  wastes  of  woe, 
It  came  a  little  while  ago. 

My  life  stood  so  much  at  the  worst, 
I  seemed  so  bitterly  accurst, 
I  hardly  knew  it  at  the  first. 

194 


"He  Giveth  His  Beloved  Rest" 

It  grew  not  on  me  suddenly, 

With  such  swift  shining  as  might  lie 

In  light  down-streaming  from  the  sky — 

A  great  and  mighty  rushing  thrill 
Of  glory  flooding  at  my  will, 
And  into  good  transforming  ill. 

But  with  such  saintly-meek  degrees 

Of  motherly-sweet  influences 

As  softly  pressed  me  to  my  knees, 

And  warmly  touched  my  praying  lips 
With  words  of  strange  new  fellowships 
Strong-winged  like  homeward-freighted  ships; 

And  with  white  hands  of  tenderness 
So  led  me  forth  from  my  distress 
To  places  that  were  sorrowless, 

That  at  the  last  I  could  but  say, 
"  O  Spirit,  lead  me  night  and  day, 
And  I  will  follow  thee  alway. 

"  Thou  art  more  gentle  to  me  now 
In  this  great  grief  whereto  I  bow, 
Than  mother-kisses  on  my  brow; 

195 


"He  Giveth  His  Beloved  Rest" 

Fuller  of  solace  and  of  rest 

Than  place  upon  my  mother's  breast 

When  I  was  wearily  opprest. 


"  Her  sacred  eyes  were  tender-bright 
With  large  excess  of  love  and  light, 
In  the  sweet  time  of  her  good-night; 


"  But  thy  calm  orbs  with  greater  store 
Of  holy  warmth  are  suffused  o'er, 
And  they  do  thrill  me  more  and  more. 


Her  voice  was  very  soothing-low; 
But  thine  doth  overfill  me  so 
With  such  a  wonder-clasping  glow, 


And  so  much  beautiful  increase 
Of  luminous  seraphic  peace 
Is  in  thy  patient  utterances, 


That  I  can  only  kneel  and  pray, 
O  Spirit,  guide  me  night  and  day, 
And  I  will  follow  thee  alway." 


196 


I   REMEMBER 

1  REMEMBER— I  remember 
In  the  dying  of  the  year, 
When  I  used  to  pine  and  sicken 

For  a  little  human  cheer; 
How  unto  my  crazy  letters 

Came  her  answers  warm  and  true, 
Quickening  all  the  blood  within  me — 
I  remember — yes  I  do. 

I  remember — I  remember 

When  I  reached  my  home  once  more, 
How  I  hurried  thro'  the  city 

'Till  I  stood  before  her  door; 
How  I  leaped  along  the  stairway, 

How  the  staring  servant  flew 
With  the  message  of  the  stranger — 

I  remember — yes  I  do. 

I  remember — I  remember 

How  my  foolish  pulses  shook, 
When  she  met  me  in  the  parlor 

With  the  old  beloved  look; 
How  my  full  eyes  wet  their  lashes, 

How  it  thrilled  me  through  and  through 
When  her  dark  orbs  leaned  toward  me — 

I  remember — yes  I  do. 

197 


Communion 

I  remember — I  remember 

All  our  earnest  poet-talks, 
All  our  mystic  music-dreamings, 

Held  in  blessed  city-walks; 
How  we  sat  among  the  pictures 

Which  the  prophet-painters  drew; 
And  the  speech  of  marble  statues 

I  remember — yes  I  do. 


I  remember — I  remember 

How  her  sacred  counsellings 
Went  across  my  moody  nature 

Like  a  sweep  of  angel  wings; 
All  the  fellowship  she  gave  me, 

All  the  peace  that  from  it  grew, 
And  the  weary,  weary  parting — 

I  remember — yes  I  do. 


COMMUNION 

THE  somber  daylight  dies,  mother, 
It  is  the  quiet  even — 
The  hour  when  thy  dear  eyes,  mother, 
Are  brooding  toward  heaven. 

198 


Communion 

Thy  life  is  lifted  there,  mother, 
For  all  thy  scattered  sheep: 

0  mind!  O  soul!  O  care,  mother, 
A  mother's  prayer  is  deep. 

Across  the  aching  sea,  mother, 

Is  drawn  a  mystic  chain 
Which  lengthens  unto  me,  mother, 

And  back  to  thee  again, 
And  skyward  then  doth  grow,  mother, 

Beyond  the  utmost  star; 
Ah!  only  angels  know,  mother, 

How  many  links  there  are. 

It  tightens  round  me  now,  mother, 

I  feel  my  spirit  come 
Swifter  than  speeding  prow,  mother, 

To  thee,  and  peace,  and  home. 

1  walk  the  hallowed  ground,  mother, 
I  see  thee  turn,  and  start — 

And  now,  with  one  vast  bound,  mother, 
I  fall  upon  thy  heart. 

We  sing  the  olden  hymn,  mother, 

Unto  the  olden  strain: — 
What  makes  our  eyes  grow  dim,  mother, 

With  beatific  rain  ? 

199 


Impatience 

How  far  the  world  removes,  mother, 
What  soft  spells  o'er  me  creep: — 

O,  in  thy  love  of  loves,  mother, 
I  wrap  me  up  and  sleep! 


IMPATIENCE 

OGod,  the  earth  is  trampled  down, 
In  sin  and  shame  it  lieth; 
From  every  land  beneath  the  sun 

A  voice  accusing  crieth. 
The  nations  strive  in  deadly  wars, 
The  cannon  speaks  in  thunder: 
Arise,  and  break  the  prison  bars, 
And  rend  the  chains  asunder!" 


The  earth  is  worn  by  cries  of  death, 

And  vexed  by  petty  tyrants; 
Sad  wailings  rise  on  every  breath; 

Thou  only  keepest  silence. 
Where  angels  with  the  harp  and  song 

In  heaven's  courts  adore  Thee, 
Can  ever  mortal  grief  or  wrong 

Or  prayers  come  up  before  Thee  ? 

200 


Impatience 

Yes;  the  deep  mystery  unfolds 

In  light  of  Revelation; 
Sealed  for  the  latter  times  He  holds 

His  wine  of  indignation. 
Earth's  wanderers  murmur  in  their  night: 

"  His  chariot-wheels  turn  slowly;" 
Angels  that  see  Him  in  the  light 

Make  answer:  "  Holy,  holy!" 


Justice  sits  throned  overhead, 

Beyond  the  highest  places; 
It  is  not  for  our  feet  to  tread 

Where  angels  veil  their  faces; 
Before  the  burning  of  the  Seven 

We  earthly  well  may  falter; 
We  only  know  the  answer  given 

The  souls  beneath  the  altar. 


In  white  robes  stand  the  witnesses, 

Mid  incense-clouds  enwreathing; 
How  long  ?"  they  cry — a  little  space 

Before  the  sword's  unsheathing. 
Daily  with  that  accusing  band 

The  earth's  down-trodden  gather; 
And  ministers  of  vengeance  stand 

Ever  before  the  Father. 

201 


"My  Love  is  Deep  " 

Faith  sees  His  purpose  shining  pure 

Beyond  our  sight's  discerning. 
O,  just  and  equal,  slow  and  sure 

The  mills  of  God  are  turning! 
Even  so,  Great  Ruler!  on  whose  crown 

Eternal  years  are  hoary; 
We  lay  in  dust  our  wisdom  down — 

Thy  patience  is  Thy  glory. 


202 


MISCELLANEOUS 


"MY   LOVE  IS   DEEP" 

SOME  wild  things  have  I  dared,  and  some 
Strange  things  have  hoped.     I  cannot  see 
If  these  high  hopes  are  doomed  to  be 
Dashed  from  the  heights  they've  clomb. 


The  wind  is  raging  very  high, 

The  earth  is  strewn  with  autumn  leaves, 
Mournful  as  when  the  spirit  grieves 

Its  summer  hopes  should  die. 

It's  midnight  now!     And  flickering  low 
The  wasted  wick  burns  drear  and  dim. 
About  my  brain  strange  fancies  swim, 

Strange  feelings  round  me  flow. 

I  cannot  sigh,  I  cannot  weep; 

I  smile  not,  yet  I  am  not  sad. 

I  mourn  not,  yet  I  am  not  glad 
I've  learned  my  love  is  deep. 


205 


LOVE'S   FEAR 

I   LONG,  yet  fear  to  love!  for  I  have  seen 
So  much  of  falsehood  and  so  much  of  guile, 
And  I  have  known  such  dark  and  deadly  sin 

Lurk  in  the  silence  of  a  beaming  smile, 
And  in  my  own  heart-chambers  there  have  been 

So  many  sorrows  rankling  all  the  while, 
That  when  my  soul  sits  brooding  like  a  dove 
I  think  of  this — and  long,  yet  fear  to  love! 

I  long,  yet  fear  to  love!     I  could  not  bear 
To  fling  my  rich  affections  unto  one 

Whose  inmost  spirit  was  not  wholly  fair 
In  love  less  pure  and  lavish  than  mine  own; 

And  then  my  heart  would  break  in  its  despair 
To  find  the  visions  it  had  dreamed  o'erthrown; 

So,  when  my  heart  to  pulses  wildly  move, 

I  think  of  this — and  long,  yet  fear  to  love. 

I  long,  yet  fear  to  love!     My  soul  hath  bled 
From  its  too  perfect  trust  in  vows  unkept, 

And  I  had  deemed  that  all  my  love  was  dead. 
Yet  now  I  know  that  it  hath  only  slept; 

206 


To  Harriet 

But,  oh!  if  evermore  about  my  head 

There  sweeps  the  tempest  that  before  hath  swept, 

Heart,  mind  and  brain  would  wrecked  and  shattered 

prove, 
And  knowing  this — I  long,  yet  fear  to  love! 

I  long,  yet  fear  to  love!     Oh!  who  will  come 
And  speak  the  words  I  am  athirst  to  hear  ? 

O,  who  will  make  this  yearning  heart  her  home 
And  lie  there,  thrilling  thro'  each  mystic  year? 

And  who  will  touch  these  lips  so  cold  and  dumb 
With  the  live  coal  from  love's  own  altar  clear? 

Is  there  no  answer?     Must  my  spirit  rove 

Unwoke  as  now  ?  and  long,  yet  fear  to  love  ? 


TO   HARRIET 

SHE  was  not  lovely,  but  to  me 
She  was  as  holy  as  the  night, 
When  the  strange  stars  are  flinging  light 
Thro'  heaven's  eternity. 

I  have  turned  from  them  to  her  and  wept; 
And  when  I  saw  her  earnest  eyes 

207 


To  Harriet 

Flashing  such  solemn  sympathies, 
Jesu!  I  could  have  leapt 

Right  thro'  her  eyes  into  her  heart, 
And  ask'd  no  higher  heaven  than  this, 
To  closely  nestle  in  my  bliss 

And  never  more  depart. 

O,  Harriet!  thou  hast  been  to  me 
Like  a  pale  crystalline  tear 
Set  round  with  smiles.     I  cannot  hear 
What  I  am  unto  thee! 


I  know  not,  but  my  brain  is  wild! 
And  yet  I  have  been  sometimes  blest 
With  visions  of  thyself,  and  rest 

Have  on  my  day-dreams  smiled. 

And  I  have  seen  thee  weep,  and  then 
I  longed  to  kiss  the  tears  away, 
And  see  thee  like  an  April  day 
Change  into  joy  again. 

And  I  have  held  thy  hand  in  mine! 
I  would  have  pressed  it  to  my  heart, 

208 


The  Faint  Adieu 

But  that  I  feared  it  might  impart 
Some  bitterness  to  thine. 


And  I  have  dared  to  place  my  fingers 
On  thy  sweet  forehead  and  thy  hair, 
And  aye,  I  marvel  much  if  there 

One  mark  of  mine  still  lingers. 

One  mark  of  mine,  one  thought  of  me! 
Harriet,  it  is  not  much  I  ask, 
But,  oh!  'twill  be  a  bitter  task 

To  tear  my  heart  from  thee! 


THE  FAINT  ADIEU 

SHE  hung  upon  his  neck,  suffused  in  tears 
Like  a  flower  bending  with  its  weight  of  dew, 
Weeping  as  tho'  the  griefs  of  all  her  years 
Lay  in  the  fountains  of  her  orbs  of  blue; 
And  then  there  came — scarce  heard  by  their  own  ears, 

Whispers  of  constancy — the  faint  adieu, 
At  last  one  long,  rapt  kiss,  a  stifled  moan, 
Receding  footsteps,  and  she  stood — alone! 

209 


Summer  Night 

They  parted  all  too  soon!  just  when  the  fire 
Of  each  heart's  passion  sparkled  in  their  eyes; 

Just  when  the  bloom  of  all  young  life's  desire 

Had  tinged  their  warm  cheeks  with  its  tell-tale  dyes; 

Just  when  love's  finger  struck  the  trembling  lyre 
And  woke  the  sound  that  all  too  quickly  dies, 

Yet  never  died  with  them  that  hour  they  parted, 

And  each  past  on  in  silence,  weary-hearted. 

They  never  met  again!     The  world  was  cold, 

And  fate  was  haughty  while  their  friends  were  stern, 

As  life  passed  quickly  and  they  soon  grew  old, 
Laying  their  young  hopes  in  its  funeral  urn. 

Both  hands  are  clasped  around  it!    Both  hearts  fold 
Beneath  their  wings  that  past  to  which  they  turn; 

The  ruined  shrine  where  all  their  sympathies 

Worship  forevermore  with  streaming  eyes. 


SUMMER  NIGHT 

COME  here  and  look  at  God!   The  great  round  moon 
Hangs  'mong  the  stars  upon  the  verge  of  heaven 
Like  a  vast  hope  within  a  boundless  soul 
Brimful  of  lofty  majesty;  the  stars 
Wait  on  her  steps  as  blooming  pages  wak 
Upon  a  reigning  queen.     Onward  she  sweeps 

210 


Summer  Night 

With  regal  footsteps  up  the  vaulted  sky, 
Beaming  her  smiles  upon  her  satellites 
As  on  her  suitors  beams  a  peerless  maid. 
Far  in  the  west  the  glowing  heaven  bends  down. 
Kissing  the  sunset  hills — like  a  rapt  youth 
Embracing  his  beloved.     In  the  south 
The  boundless  ocean,  slumbering  peacefully, 
Looks  like  eternity  at  rest.     Our  ship 
With  her  white  folded  wings  lies  anchored  there 
Like  an  angel  sleeping  on  the  breast  of  God. 
Hid  in  yon  thicket's  heart,  the  nightingale 
Pours  her  wild  music  in  the  ear  of  night 
Till  it  seems  drunk  with  joy.     Hark!     How  her  song- 
Wells  forth  delicious  from  a  joyous  bean, 
Sweet  as  the  music  of  an  angel's  harp 
Attuned  by  Gabriel's  hand.     How  mystical 
And  dream-like  comes  the  murmur  of  the  stream 
That  babbles  thro'  the  meadows;  it  is  like 
A  virgin  beauty  who  in  bridal  dreams 
Vaguely,  and  in  half  words,  tells  to  the  night 
The  secret  of  her  soul ! 

The  panting  breeze 

Throbs  tremulous  on  yon  green  hill  of  pines, 
Like  the  hopeful  trembling  of  a  stripling's  bean, 
Earnest,  yet  all  untried.     Far  off  I  see 
The  red  fires  gleaming  in  the  Tillage  homes, 
Flashing  their  strange  lights  even  at  my  feet, 
Am  fiUjifcitS  flash  their  gorgeous  flaming  thoughts 

211 


On  Receipt  of  a  Daguerreotype 

Across  the  nick  of  time.     The  green  earth  sleeps 
Beneath  the  eye  of  heaven,  like  a  fair  girl, 
O'er  whose  white  finger  the  betrothal  ring, 
Graven  with  her  lover's  name  and  set  with  gems, 
Lies  glittering  like  the  stars — for  thus  hath  God 
Writ  his  solemn  name  upon  the  virgin  earth, 
Whom  he  will  one  day  wed. 


ON  RECEIPT  OF  A  DAGUERREOTYPE 

THE  flashing  light  may  liven  thy  form 
In  living  lines  of  breathing  grace, 
May  give  each  tint  a  tone  as  warm 

As  that  which  melts  o'er  thy  dear  face; 
But  in  my  soul  and  on  my  heart 
With  deeper  colors,  truer  aim, 
A  loftier  power  than  meager  art 

Hath  graved  thy  image  and  thy  name. 

And  rain  or  wind,  and  storm  or  shine 

May  mar  the  sunlight's  subtlest  skill, 
While  all  the  floods  and  frosts  of  time 

But  cut  thine  image  deeper  still; 
For  love  is  not  like  earthly  things, 

To  die  when  it  is  old  and  hoar; 
With  its  true  heart  and  buoyant  wings 

It  swells  and  soars  forevermore. 

212 


"BUT  LET  IT  PASS" 

"  Do  not  write  in  my  album;  write  separately." 

AY,  it  is  well!  my  fierce  and  fiery  mood 
Would  ill  beseem  its  wealth  of  whispered  hopes. 
Aye,  it  is  well!  for  Etna's  molten  flood 

And  the  deep  greenery  of  summer  slopes — 
Things  utterly  apart — like  love  and  hate, 
Should,  as  thou  say'st,  be  far  and  separate. 

And  yet  perchance  their  love  must  yield  to  mine 
In  height  and  depth  and  madding  earnestness, 

For  when  a  poet  drinks  of  love's  strong  wine 
His  calmest  dreams  are  passionate  excess: 

Wherefore — but  let  that  pass!  I  am  thy  brother, 

And  yet  I  love  thee  as  I  love  none  other. 


None  other,  no,  not  one:  there  was  a  time — 
Let  that  too  pass — her  grave  is  o'er  the  sea 

Among  the  purple  billows  of  a  clime 

That  broke  her  heart,  and  crushed  and  maddened  me; 

But  that  it  is  my  Mother's  biding  place, 

I  should  ere  this  have  curst  it  and  its  race! 

213 


"But  Let  It  Pass" 

I  had  some  things  to  say:     I  know  not  what, 

I  am  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance; 
I  only  know  my  brain  is  wild  and  hot, 

That  my  blood  swiftens,  and  my  proud  heart  pants 
With  a  new  madness,  sweet,  yet  terrible, 
I  reck  not  if  it  be  of  heaven  or  hell. 

I  had  some  things  to  say;  but  let  them  pass, 
I  will  not  wrong  thy  heart  with  selfish  words; 

And  more — my  life  is  withering  as  the  grass 
Withers  away  on  sunny  slopes  and  swards, 

'Neath  the  keen  edge  of  the  remorseless  scythe: 

Well — let  it  cut:  thou  hast  not  seen  me  writhe. 

And  yet  remember  me  as  one  whose  soul 
Was  not  all  fret,  or  phantasy,  or  flame, 

But  write  me  on  thy  heart,  as  on  a  scroll, 

One  whose  strange  spirit  sorrow  could  not  tame, 

Rash — yet  no  craven;  his  own  nature's  slave, 

And  headlong  as  a  fierce  careering  wave. 

Farewell!  and  do  not  utterly  forget 
Him  who  would  peril  his  immortality, 

For  one  close  kiss  of  thine;  when  our  eyes  met, 

Didst  thou  not  think  mine  own  looked  yearningly? 

Gleamed  they  not  hotly — even  as  molten  brass  ? 

Ay!  and  thine  own  were  calm:  but  let  it  pass. 

214 


A  FRAGMENT 

[From  an  unfinished  poem.] 

f  I  "O-NIGHT  the  moon  is  pale!    Twelve  moons 

1  to-night 

And  at  this  hour  and  on  this  spot,  I  stood 
Thrilling  with  manly  pride.     I'd  set  a  gem 
On  the  forehead  of  the  world,  and  as  I  stood 
Looking  far  out  into  the  pensive  night, 
I  saw  it  throbbing  on  man's  stately  brow 
As  a  star  throbs  on  the  arched  front  of  heaven. 
And  on  the  wings  of  the  hushed  and  stilly  air 
There  came  a  murmur  of  applause  from  men 
Whose  wondering  hearts  ensphered  its  flushing  light. 

She,  too,  was  here — o'ercharged  with  earnest  love, 

Like  a  young  angel  brimming  o'er  with  bliss, 

Leaning  on  me  with  such  a  fervent  trust 

As  holy  saints  lean  on  the  arm  of  God! 

I  was  her  God!  her  spirit  lay  in  mine 

All  pure  and  pearly,  as  a  dewdrop  lies 

Emboldened  in  a  rose's  heart.      She  clung 

Unto  my  soul  with  such  a  jealous  love 

As  a  young  mother  clings  unto  the  babe 

That  made  her  first  a  matron;  here  she  stood 

215 


The  Palace  of  Thought 

With  her  white  finger  pointing  to  the  sky, 
Thick  sown  with  lustrous  stars,  as  earth  is  sown 
With  cherub  children's  eyes. 

"  Clement,"  she  said, 

These  are  thy  witnesses,"  then  burst  in  tears 
Like  a  full  cloud  pouring  its  heart  in  rain. 


THE  PALACE  OF  THOUGHT 

I    DO  believe  a  grand  thought  never  dies, 
I  do  believe  that  after-love  is  best, 
When  the  strange  fire  that  lay  within  the  eyes 

And  the  wild  singing  of  the  heart's  unrest 
Have  passed  away,  and  we  are  calm  and  wise, 
And  think  upon  the  love  that  makes  us  blest; 
I  do  believe  there's  more  of  heaven  in  this 
Than  all  the  eloquence  of  earlier  bliss. 

We  reel  beneath  the  first  as  from  a  blow; 

We  watch  its  splendor  till  our  eyes  are  dim; 
We  revel  in  its  nectar  till  we  grow 

Dizzy  and  drunken,  faint  in  every  limb; 
And  so  we  sleep  and  dream,  then  wake  to  know 

Our  rapturous  songs  have  deepened  to  a  hymn, 
Whose  sweeter  music,  like  a  heavenly  psalm, 
Freshens  our  souls  with  drops  of  holy  balm. 

216 


The  Palace  of  Thought 

Ay;  there  it  stands,  crowning  the  grand  old  woods 
Like  a  white  angel  on  a  hill  of  thought, 

Peopling  the  song-birds'  ancient  solitudes 
With  deeper  joy  than  spring-time  ever  brought, 

As,  full  of  lofty  majesty,  it  broods 

O'er  the  fair  images  that  are  unwrought 

In  its  transparent  soul,  while  serfs  and  kings 

Rest  in  the  cool  shade  of  its  mighty  wings. 


Thou'rt  wedded  to  our  years,  and  it  is  well. 

We  are  impulsive,  and  do  need  a  bride 
Whose  rapt  affection  lives  unchangeable 

Thro'  all  our  days  of  loneliness  and  pride; 
So  we  may  lean  upon  her  love,  and  dwell 

In  the  pure  heart  where  rest  is,  till  the  tide 
That  o'er  our  being  flings  its  boisterous  waves 
Rolls  surging  back  into  the  sullen  caves. 

As  a  fond  mother,  with  o'er-brimming  heart 
Stands  up  and  gospels  all  her  sons  with  truth, 

While  the  warm  tears  that  all  unbidden  start 
Throb  back  an  answer  from  the  soul  of  youth; 

So  stand  thou  up  forever,  and  impart 

To   the  world's    heart   all   fair   things    that   may 
smoothe 

The  rugged  heights  of  that  stupendous  shore, 

O'er  which  we  hasten  on  for  evermore! 

217 


" There  is  Hope  for  Thee" 

A  stream  of  souls  runs  thro'  thee,  and  I  hear 
The  dreamy  murmur  of  their  sympathies, 

And  how,  like  pealing  thunder  on  my  ear, 

There  burst  the  solemn,  grand  old  symphonies 

Which,  like  the  music  of  the  upper  sphere, 
Are  but  the  lofty-languaged  utterances 

Of  highest  yearnings,  and  all  earnest  dreams 

That  lie  in  thy  pure  heart,  like  pearls  in  streams. 

But  now,  adieu!     Thy  greatness  is  so  vast, 
I  cannot  grasp  its  wide  immensity; 

I  muse  upon  the  grandeur  that  thou  hast 
Till  I  am  lost  as  on  a  boundless  sea; 

And  so,  farewell!     My  heart  is  throbbing  fast, 
Its  hopes,  like  tears,  run  streaming  into  thee; 

I  see  them  pulsing  on  thy  leaves  and  flowers 

As  on  earth's  greenery  hang  the  joyous  showers. 


''THERE  IS  HOPE  FOR  THEE" 

THERE  is  hope  for  thee,  poor  erring  one 
With  sin  and  sorrow  curst  and  crushed, 
Through  the  thick  darkness  gleams  the  sun, 
With  a  pale,  sad  beauty  flushed. 

218 


"There  is  Hope  for  Thee" 

The  lone  wind  sobbeth  not  so  loud, 
Heaven's  breath  is  kissing  flower  and  tree, 
The  blue  sky  bursts  through  yonder  cloud — 
There  is  hope,  poor  soul,  for  thee! 


There  is  hope  for  thee,  poor  erring  heart 
All  torn  and  bleeding  and  unblest, 
There  are  balm-leaves  to  anoint  the  part 

That's  festering  in  thy  breast. 
There  are  aids  for  all  thy  trembling  limbs 
Till  they  are  firm  and  strong  and  free, 
There  are  tearful  hopes  and  prayerful  hymns 

Breathed  forth,  poor  heart,  for  thee! 

Yes!  there  is  hope  for  thee,  poor  soul, 
All  wild  and  wayward  as  thou  wast, 
So  let  the  future  moments  toll 

The  death-knell  of  the  past. 
There  are  eyes  that  strain  to  see  thee  start, 
And  bosoms  panting  like  a  sea, 
Press  onward  then,  poor  sorrowing  heart, 

For  there  is  hope  for  thee! 


219 


"  DEAL  GENTLY" 

DEAL  gently  with  the  fallen  one, 
Thou  who  hast  kept  thy  higher  birth; 
Pray  for  the  erring  heart,  nor  shun 

The  outcast  of  the  earth. 
Thou  knowest  not  the  heavy  waves 
Of  agony  which  o'er  him  roll, 
Thou  canst -not  tell  the  woe  that  laves 
Forever  round  his  soul. 

Deal  gently  with  the  fallen  one, 
Speak  lovingly  to  the  unwise, 
Perchance  repentance  hath  begun 

Its  work  of  tears  and  sighs. 
And  kindly  words  in  earnest  given, 
With  gentle  hopes  in  love  expressed, 
May  win  a  soul  from  earth  to  heaven, 

And  give  the  wearied  rest. 

Deal  gently  with  the  fallen  one, 
All  dark  and  guilty  tho  he  be, 
For  scorn  is  not  of  heaven,  and  none 
Are  from  the  tempter  free; 

220 


My  L,ost   One 

We  all  may  sin  ;  thou  mightest  err, 
Should  syren  tongues  thy  ears  accost, 
O  friend,  be  then  a  comforter 
Unto  the  lonely  lost! 


MY  LOST  ONE 

I   am  young  in  years,  yet  old  in  woe, 
And  my  hair  is  flecked  with  gray, 
And  I  pass  thro'  life  like  a  dreamer  now, 
While  none  may  read  from  eye  or  brow 
That  the  light  hath  passed  away. 

I  have  lived  with  a  love  as  high  as  heaven 

And  deep  as  the  lowest  hell, 

I  have  seen  my  life's  hopes  crusht  and  riven, 
Till,  aye,  like  a  bolt  of  burning  levin, 

The  agony  on  me  fell. 

I  have  lain  on  the  bosom  of  one  as  fair 

As  a  dream  of  young  delight; 

I  have  felt  her  hand  on  my  dark  brown  hair, 
And  the  touch  of  her  lips  was  pure  and  rare 

As  the  thrill  of  starry  night. 


My  Lost  One 

The  passionate  gush  of  her  wild,  sweet  song, 

And  the  light  of  her  loving  eye 

With  the  flame  in  her  heart  were  all  mine  own, 
For  our  joyous  loves  had  grown  so  strong 

They  never  more  might  die. 

But  a  wrinkled  wordling,  ripe  for  hell, 
Came  in  with  his  hoard  of  gold, 

And  robbed  my  heart  of  its  Annabel. 

0  God!    How  my  soul  did  burn  and  swell 
As  I  stood  and  saw  her  sold. 

Ay!     Bartered  off  with  a  broken  heart 

At  mammon's  damned  shrine, 

But  the  chords  of  her  young  life  snapped  apart, 
And  she  felt  no  more  the  terrible  dart 

That's  thrust  forever  in  mine. 

So,  I  live  along  in  a  strange  wild  trance, 
And  await  my  time  to  die. 

1  am  often  thrilled  with  an  eloquent  glance, 
And  my  soul  leaps  up  and  my  spirit  pants, 

'Neath  glance  of  a  luminous  eye. 

But  oh!     When  the  midnight  hour  is  on 

And  the  past  goes  flitting  by, 

With  its  fearful  eyes  and  its  hollow  moan, 
I  hold  my  heart  by  a  smothered  groan 

And  pray  that  I  may  die. 


THE  POET'S  WEALTH 

WHO  says  the  poet's  lot  is  hard  ? 
Who  says  it  is  with  misery  rife? 
Who  pities  the  deluded  bard 

That  dreams  away  his  life  ? 
Go  thou  and  give  thy  sympathy 

Unto  the  crowd  of  common  men  ; 
The  poet  needs  it  not,  for  he 
Hath  joys  beyond  thy  ken. 

Yea,  he  hath  many  a  broad  domain 

Which  thou,  O  man,  hath  never  seen, 
Where  never  comes  the  pelting  rain 

Or  stormy  winter  keen. 
There  ever  balmy  is  the  air, 

And  ever  smiling  are  the  skies, 
For  beauty  ever  blossoms  there — 

Beauty  that  never  dies. 

There  sportive  fancy  loves  to  roam 
And  cull  the  sweets  from  every  flower, 

While  meditation  builds  her  home 
Beneath  some  forest-bower; 

223 


My  lyost  Tones 

There,  too,  the  poet  converse  holds 
With  spirit  of  the  long  ago, 

And  dim  futurity  unfolds 
Secrets  for  him  to  know. 

Then  say  not  that  in  wretchedness 

The  poet  spends  his  weary  days, 
Say  not  that  hunger  and  distress 

Are  guerdon  for  his  lays; 
But  rather  say  that  lack  of  gold 

Unto  the  bard  is  greatest  bliss, 
And  say,  he  is  not  earth-controlled 

Whilst  owning  wealth  like  this. 


MY  LOST  TONES 

I    AM  old,  perchance,  before  my  time, 
And  my  heart  is  wet  with  tears, 
While  on  my  life  is  the  frost  and  rime 
Of  the  gathered  storms  of  years. 

There  is  many  a  ruined  shrine  that  lies 
In  the  paths  which  I  have  trod, 

And  much  that's  buried  from  human  eyes 
And  only  known  to  God. 

224 


My  Lost  Tones 

There  is  many  a  love  that  hath  grown  cold, 

And  many  an  unkept  vow, 
And  much — oh!  how  much,  that  I  would  fold 

To  my  lonely  spirit  now. 

There  is  wild,  vague  music  floating  down 

Thro'  the  dim  departed  days, 
But  I  can  not  note  whence  comes  the  tone, 

So  thick  is  the  tearful  haze.  »    ; 

Perchance  'tis  the  wail  of  wild  unrest 
From  the  years  that  have  passed  by, 

Or  it  may  be  discord  from  the  sobbing  breath 
Of  some  dream  I  left  to  die. 

Ah  well!  there's  a  shadow  across  my  brow, 

There's  a  mist  before  my  sight, 
Yet  the  beautiful  thought  is  o'er  me  now 

That  the  stars  are  with  the  night. 

I  know  that  the  seeming  ills  of  fate 
Are  but  love's  in  strange  disguise, 

And  that  even  the  terrible  specter,  hate, 
May  have  soft  and  motherly  eyes. 

So  I  wait;  and  perchance  in  the  Far-to-be 
I  shall  find  that  the  mystic  hymn 

Which  seemed  so  solemn  and  sad  to  me, 
Was  the  voice  of  the  cherubim. 

225 


AGONY 

ONCE  when  I  and  Sorrow  pondered 
O'er  the  wealth  my  soul  had  squandered, 
In  the  days  when  pride  and  passion 

Burned  within  me  like  a  hell; 
Then  my  life  grew  pale  and  haggard, 
And  my  spirit  reeled  and  staggered 
With  the  agony  that  tore  it, 
In  the  dream  that  on  me  fell. 

In  the  calm  of  summer  even, 
When  the  angels  unperceiven 
Come  and  wave  their  snowy  pinions 

O'er  our  fetter-furrowed  brows; 
Ere  the  morn  had  yet  arisen 
I  had  set  myself  to  listen 
For  the  stars,  whose  eyes  would  watch  me 

Thro'  the  green-leaved  chestnut  boughs. 

And  I  waited  long,  and  longer, 
And  the  yearning  still  grew  stronger 
For  the  coming  of  the  starlight 

Out  into  the  quiet  skies. 
Then  my  soul  was  wet  and  glistening, 
And  my  spirit  ached  with  listening, 
Till  at  last  like  madden'd  famine 

Flashed  the  yearning  thro'  my  eyes. 

226 


Agony 

Like  a  rare  and  queenly  maiden 
With  a  wealth  of  beauty  laden, 
Moving  with  a  grace  imperial 

Rose  the  golden-tressed  moon; 
But  her  calm  and  stately  glory 
Unto  me  seemed  old  and  hoary, 
For  the  stars  alone  I  waited 

On  that  solemn  night  in  June. 


And  the  lengthening  shadows  lengthened, 
And  the  famine  grew  and  strengthened, 
As  the  soft  winds  smote  my  forehead, 

Swept  like  kisses  thro'  my  hair; 
But  the  deep  and  earnest  gladness 
Came  like  mockery  to  my  madness, 
When  I  turned  to  heaven,  imploring — 

But  the  stars  were  never  there! 


And  the  gracious  moon  kept  brightening 
As  my  spirit  leapt  like  lightning, 
And  my  eyeballs  were  consuming 

With  the  agonizing  heat; 
And  a  white  dove  settled  near  me, 
Neither  did  the  songbirds  fear  me, 
For  a  robin  came  and  warbled 

In  a  rosebush  at  my  feet. 

227 


Agony 

And  I  quivered  like  an  aspen 
When  the  whirlwind  hath  it  claspen, 
And  the  hells  of  aspiration 

Flamed  with  thousand-fold  desire; 
But  upon  my  strange  perdition 
Fell  no  sanctifying  vision, 
So  the  molten  anguish  mounted 

Till  my  soul  was  all  on  fire. 


Then  this  feeling  wakened  slowly, 
That  my  soul  had  grown  unholy, 
And  I  knew  I  was  a  leper 

As  my  waning  life  grew  dim; 
And  the  wind  rose  wild  and  tearful, 
Then  again  fell  low  and  fearful, 
With  a  broken-hearted  wailing 

Like  an  unloved  orphan's  hymn. 


And  I  knew  that  I  was  dying, 
As  the  solemn  wind  kept  sighing, 
'in  its  prelude  to  the  requiem 

It  should  utter  o'er  my  soul; 
While  my  strained  eyes  grew  leaden 
And  my  limbs  began  to  deaden, 
As  a  torment  writhed  throughout  me 

'Twas  the  last  dreg  in  the  bowl. 

228 


The  Human  Statue 

Then  a  blessed  dream  came  to  me, 
And  I  heard  my  first  love  woo  me, 
Till  her  warm  tears  rained  like  music 

On  my  swoll'n  and  livid  lips; 
And  her  sweet  and  low-voiced  breathing 
Quenched  the  fire  within  me  seething, 
And  I  knew  my  soul  had  trembled 

Thro'  its  terrible  eclipse. 

So  my  soul  awoke  from  dreaming, 
While  the  holy  stars  were  beaming 
Like  the  gentle  eyes  of  mothers, 

When  their  trust  is  all  in  heaven; 
So,  my  trembling  spirit's  sadness 
Melted  into  blessed  gladness, 
As  I  'rose  and  bowed  my  forehead, 

For  I  knew  I  was  forgiven. 


THE  HUMAN  STATUE 

An  address  delivered  before  the  students  of  Warnersville 
Academy,  New  York,  June  2, 1855. 

WE  all  do  carve  as  statues  evermore! 
And  some  are  sculptured  with   most  living 

skill, 
And  some  are  rude  and  lowly;  while  some  seem 

229 


The  Human  Statue 

So  strangely  fair  in  their  deformity 
We  weep,  and  loathe,  and  cling  unto  them  still: 
And  thus  are  shaped  life's  subtle  essences, 
And  thus  all  things  do  symbolize  the  soul. 

Therefore,  O  friends — in  this  your  earnest  youth — 

When  loftiest  visions  of  the  future  stand 

Throbbing  before  your  sight,  note  every  line 

In  their  high-thoughted  features,  and  so  carve 

The  grand  hope  into  form,  that  it  shall  stand 

Through  all  the  years  majestic  'fore  your  sight 

As  a  white  statue  from  its  pedestal 

Smiles  on  the  sculptor  whose  large  skill  has  wrought 

Thus  into  wondrous  symmetry  the  thought 

That  erst  lay  in  his  soul. 


Dig  deep  for  truth, 

And  when  your  hands  have  struck  the  hidden  vein 
Its  waters  shall  gush  up  to  meet  your  lips 
With  a  most  tempting  loveliness,  whereof 
Your  souls  may  sate  their  thirst  forevermore. 
So  live,  and  ye  shall  flourish;  and,  perchance, 
When   your   green    springtime,   with    its  buds   and 

blooms, 

Passes  to  the  ripe  autumn,  there  shall  be 
Such  mellow  plenty  of  rich-flavored  fruit 
That  the  old  epicure — the  world — shall  bend 

230 


The  Human  Statue 

And  stagger  beneath  her  treasures,  as  a  vine 
Totters  beneath  its  luscious  load  of  grapes. 

So  live,  and  ye  shall  flourish!     And  if  all 

The  fibers  of  each  heart  do  cling  to  heaven; 

If  all  your  wealth  of  sympathies  be  flung 

Above  the  skies — above  the  burning  stars — 

Above  all  glories  up  to  our  own  God, 

Then  shall  your  souls  have  prescience  of  all  time, 

And  stand  among  the  angels! 

Ye  shall  speak 

And  men  shall  hear  in  wonder,  for  your  voice 
Shall  sway  the  nations  as  a  shaken  reed; 
The  long,  long  suffering  then  shall  come  to  you, 
And  the  heart-broken — all  the  tearless  ones — 
With  those  who  writhe  in  bondage;  and  your  souls 
Shall  kneel  before  their  sorrows,  and  shall  weep, 
Then  rise  up  stern  and  mighty!     When  your  eyes 
Shall  loose  their  leaping  lightnings,  and  your  lips 
Unroll  their  crashing  thunders,  till  all  wrong 
Trembles  like  creeping  murder  in  the  night. 

And  smiles  shall  be  about  you,  and  warm  tears, 
And  gladness  as  the  sunshine.     You  shall  rest 
Your  love  upon  all  children,  and  gray  hairs 
Shall  thrill  your  hearts  like  music!    Ye  shall  be 

231 


The  Human   Statue 

Children  of  poesy,  loving  all  flowers, 
Rejoicing  in  all  tempests!     Ye  shall  speak 
The  meaning  of  the  mountains,  and  unfold 
The  mysteries  that  do  lie  within  the  stars, 
And  wait  in  quiet  valleys!     Unto  you 
The  winds  shall  be  a  languaged  utterance, 
And  streams  shall  have  in  you  another  voice, 
And  seas,  and  roaring  torrents! 

Ye  shall  read 

And  render  in  our  tongue  the  solemn  hymn 
Anthemed  by  all  the  ages!     And  our  souls 
Shall  garner  up  the  kingdom  of  your  thought, 
And  form  a  mighty  universe  of  mind. 

Therefore,  O  friends,  in  this  your  earnest  youth, 

"  Excelsior"  be  ever  on  your  lips; 

Tell  out  your  message  boldly  in  the  ear 

Of  the  great  world,  and  from  the  dark  eclipse 

Drag  forth  the  hidden  light.     Then  ye  shall  hear 

The  harmony  of  angels,  and  the  strain 

Of  the  high  One's  own  choristers;  and  then 

The  voice  ye  breathe  unto  the  sons  of  men 

Shall  catch  the  music  of  the  other  sphere 

And  back  to  your  own  hearts  return  in  love  again. 


232 


I 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-12,'64(F772s4)458 


339463 

Realf ,  R, 
Poems* 


PS2690 

Al 

1898 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


